The Knight, Death, and the Devil
by Ninurtah
Summary: A young man is drafted into war by the Republic, then captured by a Sith woman when she discovers his Force sensitivity in the midst of battle. Spirited away to Empire space and thrust into a world of politics and intrigue, escape is his goal until he and his unwanted Master find themselves at the heart of a conspiracy that threatens both Empire and Republic.
1. Breathe In

When you lived out on the edge of space, with your nearest neighbor fifty miles away and the nearest starport ten times that, self-reliance wasn't a matter of pride—it was a fact of life. As Torin stood in that crowded compartment, fingering his rifle and blinking the sweat from his eyes, one thought passed through his mind:

Gods, help me. _Someone_ help me.

The compartment trembled and creaked, a low roar audible through the metal bulkheads. A faint orange glow filtered in through the slatted windows situated on the upper quarter of each wall, waxing and waning in intensity as they passed through the clouds. Sometimes the change would be accompanied by a violent rocking of the transport, a sign that some bomb or munition had nearly come close enough to punch a hole in the side and suck them all out into the stratosphere.

 _One—breathe in._

 _Two—breathe out._

Torin looked to his left, then his right. Dozens of soldiers stood on either side of him in tightly packed rows, shoulder to shoulder in the cramped metal box. Soldiers may have been a generous term—they were wearing plasteel armor and cradling blaster rifles in their shaking arms, but that hardly made a soldier. Not that Torin was any different. Before a week ago, he had never touched a blaster. As for the armor? It should have been comforting, but the weight of the breastplate hung over his shoulders only seemed to remind him how out of his element he really was.

He ran a hand over the smooth surface of the plate covering his chest, feeling the scratches and blast marks that it had incurred protecting whatever poor bastard had worn it last. Would some other young man be handed this and marched onto a troop transport after it was scavenged off of Torin's corpse? Or maybe when they landed it would be incinerated with Torin in a rain of orbital laser fire, and that would be the end of that little saga.

"Landfall in _five_ minutes!" The commander at the front of the transport walked back and forth at the front of the troop formation, holding onto a railing to steady himself as he repeated the announcement up and down the line. Would he be charging off of the transport with them?

 _Of course not._

One look at his armor marked him as a naval officer. When they'd put Torin and the others on here, there was no briefing, no real mission. They weren't soldiers—they were cannon fodder. Their job was to bury the empire in a human wave while Republic military did the real work—capturing comm centers, destroying forward operating bases, disabling anti-craft emplacements. All that the men _here_ were expected to do was die.

"Can't wait to kill some Imps!"

An elbow jostling him in the side prompted Torin to swivel his head to the right. The man next to him wore a strained smile, beads of sweat collecting on his forehead before dripping off of his brow. Torin took a moment to process his words, then tried to force a grin that would project some degree of confidence. He couldn't see his own face, but the man's reaction told him that all he exhibited was sheer terror at what was to come. The man swallowed, and both turned back to face forward towards that ominous door spanning the entire forward wall of the transport.

The man to his left bumped into him, and Torin stumbled slightly as the transport rocked. The man was shaking like a leaf, and in Torin's attempts to steady himself he felt a soft _slap_ as his boot hit wetness on the floor.

 _Lovely._

The transport shook, and he had to push off of the soldier in front of him to steady himself. The dull, constant roar outside the ship changed in tone, signaling that the rockets had kicked in to slow their descent—they were almost there.

He may have been crammed into a box like livestock with a hundred other poor souls, standing in someone else's piss, and sweating bullets from the heat and stale air—but he wanted nothing more than for those bay doors at the front of the transport to _stay shut._

The transport rocked a final time, heralding their arrival with a loud roar as the landing jets used up the last of their fuel.

"Weapons at the ready!"

The officer up front moved to a corner beside the door, and Torin finger his weapon anxiously—no matter how many times he played with it, it never felt quite right.

A harsh whine echoed around the compartment, and sunlight shone through a thin gap running across the center of the bay door. Sunlight, yes, but not like it was supposed to be—it was _red._

The door fell open, slamming to the ground and sending up a cloud of yellow dust in front of the transport. The red light filtered through the dust, filling the transport with an alien orange glow.

"Go, go, go!" The officer yelled, waving his hand forcefully. Sirens within the transport blared, herding the soldiers out—out of the frying pan and into the fire.

Torin ran through the cloud of dust the transport had kicked up, boots beating on metal, then stone as his eyes seeked out any clue as to the direction of the rally point. That was all they'd given them—a strategic location to reach and hold. They'd never make it, of course—he knew better than that. Their only purpose was to sow some disarray in the enemy lines before they inevitably got annihilated by better trained, better equipped troops.

Coughing and rubbing his eyes with his free hand, he breached the cloud and looked ahead.

 _Not into the frying pan. Into hell._

The sky was on fire, a pastel painting of red, yellow, and orange as far as the eye could see. Aerial fighters flew over the battered ruins of a city that had been turned into a skeleton, dog fighting while a battle raged far overhead in space. Flashes of light pierced the clouds here and there, each one heralding the destruction of a vessel and the deaths of thousands of souls.

Swallowing, he cast his gaze downward and focused on what was in front of him, doing his best to block out the titanic battle raging overhead. He couldn't do anything about that—all he could do now was try to survive.

A group of soldiers ran past him, and Torin felt himself being carried forward by the sheer momentum of the group. There was safety in numbers, surely? Or would that just attract the attention of some keen-eyed artillery emplacement?

The squad funneled in between two multi-storied beige buildings, going two in a row to fit in the narrow alley. The battle had scarred the structures deeply, and one look upward had him wondering how long they would last.

The characteristic screech of a Sith fighter sounded out overhead, and the men leading the line stopped at the front of the alley. They could feel that cacophonous roar in their _bones._ Torin could only guess that the Sith designed them that way—like whistling arrows wrapped up in millions of credits worth of technology and destruction.

Tentatively, the two pairs of soldiers in front stepped out of the alley and onto a thoroughfare running in front of it. It must have looked lovely before all this. Fountains and trees lined islands in the center of the road lanes, though the fountains ran dry and the burnt-out trees smoldered faintly.

Another roar, then a crash—a fighter slid in front of the alley at an angle, killing four of the men immediately and striking the corner of one of the buildings. Debris shot up from the crash, falling onto the group as they shielded themselves. The building on the left started to shake, and more debris rained down from overhead.

Torin turned around, looking back down the long alley—it was too far to go back. Looking around wildly, his eyes landed on a small hole in the wall to his right, just large enough for someone to fit through.

"Through here!" He yelled, gesturing at the hole. None of the men moved a muscle, still frozen in shock at the sudden death of their four fellows. Torin grabbed the shoulder of the man directly in front of him and swiveled him about, then pointed at the hole. "Through here!" He yelled again, and pushed the man towards it. He stumbled, then ducked through the hole while he shouted at the rest of them to do the same. The group filtered through single file, pushing each other onward as the husk of a building finally collapsed, filling the alley with rubble and plugging the hole behind them.

Torin wanted to wait—to rest—but there was no respite here. The entire front facade of the building they'd fled into was sheared off, leaving the group exposed to the plaza ahead of them. Half a dozen empire soldiers were moving across the plaza parallel to them, alternately taking cover and firing at some unseen foe as they moved from barrier to barrier, navigating broken stonework structures and wrecked vehicles.

"Let's get em, boys!" Torin watched in horror as one of the men charged towards the imperials, beckoning the other conscripts forward. They shouted as they spilled forth from the building, sprinting across open ground to assault the hunkered-down imperial troops.

He wanted to yell out to them, to call them back, but it was too late. The imperials took cover behind whatever cover was nearest and began to pick off the reckless conscripts, only stopping when a dust cloud dense enough to obscure their line of sight drifted through the square. More men fell to the ground mid-charge, blaster holes sizzling in their chests. Each one was like a punch in the gut for Torin, and eventually he couldn't watch anymore. Clutching his rifle tightly, he ran down a pile of debris and out onto the plaza, joining the other conscripts.

If he was going to die, it was going to mean something. It might not be a _good_ death, but it'd be good enough.

His voice was hoarse from the dry air and dehydration but he yelled anyway, though he could hardly hear himself over the blaster fire filling the square and the constant roar of fighters overhead.

Stopping to kneel down, he leveled his rifle at an imperial soldier and took aim as best he could despite his shaking arms. He squeezed the trigger and the rifle discharged, and through the sights he saw the man collapse behind the speeder he had been using for cover. Had he actually _hit_ someone? He couldn't help but grin madly with a feverish exuberance that was quickly tempered with the realization that he'd just killed a man. Still kneeling, he swiveled about to find new targets and fired at the soldiers, some of the shots coming close enough to force them to stay in cover.

The Republic soldiers charged with renewed vigor, bearing down on the imperial soldiers. They leapt over cover and what was once a suicidal charge turned into a close-quarters melee. No longer able to get a clear shot, Torin watched as the numerous conscripts overwhelmed the Imperials. The sounds of battle grew silent—on the ground, at least—and the Republic soldiers looked around at each other, bewildered. Had they _won?_

One of the men laughed, followed by another, then more. The laughter turned to a cheer while the men gathered and began walking towards a broad set of stairs leading away from the plaza and towards an intact-looking government building. Torin wasn't sure if he was relieved or if he had simply gone insane, but he was grinning from ear to ear—he couldn't help but get caught up in the feeling of triumph. They had faced impossible odds, and they'd beat them. What if they could do it again, and then again, and then again? Could he actually _live_ through this?

That's when Torin saw him.

He had told himself that he was in hell, but he had forgotten that hell had demons.

The Republic soldiers stopped at the bottom of the steps. At the top stood an imposing figure clad in a metallic battle suit of gray and black, face shadowed by the light behind him. Two gauntlets terminated in clawed fingers, and in one hand he clutched something small—a blaster?

With a flick of the wrist, a luminous red blade shot forth from the object. The soldiers at the bottom of the steps gasped and braced themselves, guns raised—but they didn't dare fire. The figure waited a moment, observing the cowed masses below him.

"Fire!" One of the men yelled, firing his blaster. The Sith leapt down the steps through the hail of blaster fire, blade moving about in front of him with a practiced ease that deflected the incoming projectiles. Two of the soldiers collapsed to the ground, killed by their own blaster fire. The rest stumbled backwards as the Sith landed at the bottom of the steps, shaking the ground with the immense weight of his suit.

Mouth agape and rifle held limply in front of him, Torin watched in awe as soldier after soldier fell to the ground, the Sith's blade making short work of plasteel and flesh alike. As the group thinned and the man turned, Torin caught a glimpse of the Sith's face. At first he thought he was seeing things—maybe the red sky and orange dust was playing tricks with the light—but there was no mistaking it. His skin was a deep shade of crimson, redder even than the blasted skies above.

Only a few soldiers remained, and the Sith turned away from Torin. Had he seen him? He could still run—away from all this.

To what, though? Into another squad of imperials? Another Sith?

Teeth clenched, he steeled himself and began running as fast as his tired legs would carry him—towards hell.

Close enough now to see that demonic face clearly, Torin slid to a stop in front of a collapsed column. Had he managed to acquire some tactical instincts in the single week of training they'd pushed him through? Probably not—cover wasn't going to stop a lightsaber, after all.

Hands shaking madly, he propped his rifle on top of the stone slab before him and looked through the sights. Between the Sith moving about like some possessed twi'lek and his own trembling body, he couldn't even keep his target in his sights.

 _One—breathe in._

 _Two—breathe out._

Amazingly, the gun steadied in his hands. He ignored his surprise to focus on his target. A week ago he'd never fired a gun before. An hour ago, he'd never killed someone before—now he was staring down the barrel of a blaster rifle, preparing to take down a Sith warrior. Torin let out a nervous chuckle, the gun shaking slightly in his hands again. With one final inhalation he filled his lungs, then held the air and braced his core as he centered the sights on the crimson-skinned alien that had finally come to a stop, standing in the miniature graveyard of Republic soldiers that he had made.

With a simple squeeze of the trigger his rifle discharged, and the green bolt of plasma sailed towards the Sith. There was a flash of light, and Torin instinctively flinched. The bolt shot back towards him, singing the stone blocks he was hunkered behind. Had he missed? Had the Sith _deflected_ it? He hadn't even been looking in the right direction!

Heart beating through his chest, he stood to his feet and brought his gun to bear on the Sith's position. As he stood, he saw that his target was still in front of him—although now a mere two feet stood between the pair. Torin gasped and squeezed his rifle trigger, his reaction time beaten by that of the Sith. The lightsaber swung upward, slicing the rifle's barrel off at the moment of its discharge. The plasma that had built up within the rifle's core vented explosively, sending Torin sprawling backwards onto the ground and the Sith bringing his arms up to his exposed face protectively.

Ears ringing and eyes burning as he lay staring upward at the scorched sky, Torin saw a figure leap into his field of vision and fall from overhead. He scurried backward in a panic, narrowly avoiding a lightsaber through the abdomen. The Sith knelt in front of him for a moment, turning his face upward in what seemed like slow motion.

 _Her_ face.

It had been impossible to tell that the person contained in the battlesuit was a woman, but even through his hazy vision he could clearly make out that alien—but very _feminine_ —face staring him down with a terrible intensity. Short, fleshy tendrils hung off of her jaw and chin, some of them adorned with golden jewelry. Her ridged, hairless eyebrows were lowered threateningly, shadowing two yellow eyes that burned like miniature suns in dark sockets.

She stood up, withdrawing her lightsaber from the cobbled ground. Torin shuffled backwards, and she extended a gauntlet-clad hand, as if beckoning him back towards her. She grew closer, and he realized that he wasn't moving backwards any more—she was pulling him towards her. He kept kicking his hands and feet in a desperate attempt to get away, but it was useless. How could he have hoped to kill someone like this? It was foolish, stupid—sacrilegious, almost. He was just a man—but this? This was something else entirely.

The woman raised her right hand and brought her elbow backwards, the tip of her lightsaber pointed at Torin's face as she dragged him towards it with some invisible force. Unable to gain any traction on the dusty ground, he flipped over and began scrambling on his side, fingers digging into any nook or cranny they could find. The pulling stopped, and he looked up to see the lightsaber held high above his head, poised to strike.

He gasped and squeezed his eyes shut, bringing his hands up in front of his face—as if that were any protection. He waited... and waited, but death did not come. Easing open first one eye, then the other, he saw the glowing blade held mere inches from his outstretched palms. Had she taken pity on him?

No, that wouldn't be very Sith-like. More likely she didn't want to kill him without being able to watch the life drain from his eyes as she did so.

Forcing himself to look that fearsome, otherworldly woman in the eyes, he didn't find rage, or sadistic pleasure. He saw... _surprise._

Confused, Torin followed her gaze downwards and looked at his open palms. The air rippled with force on all sides of his hands, barely perceptible save for the wisps of battle-born dust that drifted through the eddies of air. As they both stood there frozen, he began to become aware of a subtle vibration that traveled up his forearms and terminated in his fingertips, pulsing in time with the air before him. Was _he_ doing that?

The woman withdrew a short distance, her naked surprise turning to cold calculation. She flipped the saber in her hand so that the blade pointed back away from Torin, then strode back towards him. Torin thrust his hands towards her, but whatever miracle had once saved him wouldn't work a second time. The Sith drove the pommel of her saber through his hands and into his forehead, sending him sprawling back onto the ground.

And everything was black.


	2. Out Of The Frying Pan

Torin didn't think himself an excessively proud man, but he did consider himself to be a bit stubborn, in a roguishly endearing sort of way. He didn't like to rely on others, and he didn't like to ask for help. As soon as he awoke, one thought circled in his mind over and over.

 _Gods, help me. Someone help me._

The first thing he saw was a light. Not the kind you see when you become one with the Force—depending on what you believe—this one flickered and buzzed, running down the length of a dull brown ceiling. He squinted reflexively and then winced in pain, reaching a hand up to feel his swollen left eye, but found that his hands were bound tightly behind his back. His eye socket was tender and swollen, but at least he could still see out of it.

Above him the ceiling was moving, and he realized that he was being dragged down a hallway by the scruff of his shirt. He craned his head back and saw two helmeted guards, the red markings on their backs identifying them as Imperial soldiers. They talked to each other in short, robotic barks. Between the armor and the voice changers they had an inhuman presence designed to strike fear into their enemies. Torin had to admit—it worked.

The scrape of cold steel against his back stopped, and the soldiers pulled Torin to his knees, turning him around to face back down the hallway. One of them leaned behind him and pressed something on his manacles, and within seconds Torin was being violently pulled backwards, dragged on his shins and knees by some unseen force.

A vertical pole struck him in the back and he stopped, a _click_ coming from his shackles. He looked to either side of him and saw a dozen men just like him, all shackled to tall metal poles in a large gray holding cell. The two guards left the room, the door slamming shut behind them, leaving an eerie silence in their wake.

None of the Republic soldiers spoke. Torin gave them another look over, and going by their uniforms counted two real soldiers. The rest were conscripts, like himself. As his eyes traveled up and down the line, he thought he recognized a face and quickly recalled the eager man beside him on the troop transport. The man's eyes flashed in mutual recognition, and despite the blaster scar running across the left side of his head, he gave Torin a defiant smile.

"Kill any Sith?"

Torin laughed, the laugh turning to a cough in his dry throat. "I got one."

The man nodded, and his eyes drifted to the ground.

"How about you?" Torin asked, unable to bear the oppressive silence that had returned.

He shook his head, eyes still fixed to the floor. "We got surrounded in minutes. Half our guys got slaughtered, the other half dropped their guns—so I did, too."

Torin felt the man's shame as his own. That very easily could have been him, had circumstances been even a little bit different.

"Means I get to live, I guess—whatever that's worth."

"It's not your fault," Torin assured him. "You shouldn't have been sent here. None of us should have," he said angrily, looking at the conscripts on either side of him.

The man nodded again, seeming to at least appreciate the sentiment. "How about you? You surrender too?"

The last few minutes before being knocked out replayed in Torin's mind. It seemed like a dream—or a nightmare.

"No," he replied, shaking his head. "I got knocked out."

One of the men to his right laughed. "You trip and hit your head or something?" He nodded at Torin's swollen eye.

Torin winced reflexively. "No. There was a woman... with a lightsaber."

The man's eyes went wide. Further down the line, a man with swarthy skin and a regulation haircut scoffed. On the shoulder of his tunic was a Republic insignia.

"Bullshit. Sith don't take no prisoners."

The other prisoners looked to the officer, then back to Torin. He just shrugged in response. Why bother trying to explain it? At this point, what did it even matter?

The first man—the one from the transport—spoke up again. "What's your name?"

"Torin," he replied, then paused for a moment. "Torin Val."

The man sniffed and nodded. "Nice to meet you, Torin. I'm Okins. I'd shake your hand, but..." He knocked his manacles against the post behind him, earning a few laughs from the prisoners.

"Do you know where we are?"

Okins shook his head. "Not really. I know we're still on Uracco, but they had us blindfolded—"

"I know where we are," one of the conscripts cut in. He was a young man, even younger than Torins—just a kid, really. "We're in the Aratech plant outside of Strath."

The rest of them eyed him uncertainly.

"I used to work shifts here," he added. "You know, before all this."

Torin's heart leapt in his chest. "So you know how to get out of here?"

The kid started to speak, then stopped. Torin immediately regretted asking him such a question, but he was desperate enough to latch onto any hope of salvation.

The officer down the line clicked his tongue. "There's no gettin' out of here. Soon as they come through _those_ doors—" He nodded at the cell's exit. "—We're being shipped off to some gods forsaken prison camp other side of the galaxy."

They all felt their eyes drawn to that ominous threshold. It was the only way out, but Torin couldn't help but recall the transport bay doors. Right then, all he wanted was for them to _stay shut._

Eyes squeezed tightly closed and fists clenched, he strained against his shackles and bit into his lip. Why did he have to be here? Why _here?_ Why _him?_ He wasn't supposed to be in a place like this. The worst thing he was supposed to deal with was a predator breaking into the nerf pens.

Yet here he was, condemned to end up a slave doing hard labor for who knew how long—assuming they didn't just kill him outright. It wasn't like the Republic was going to negotiate for his release. The officer? Maybe—but Torin was no one to them. He'd lived a nobody, and he'd die a nobody.

The post behind him began to shake as the thoughts swirled in his mind, a violent rattling that he at first attributed to his own trembling arms. As the clanking of metal on metal grew, all eyes in the room were drawn to it. The men watched, awestruck, as the metal began to fold and crumple. Shards of the pole dropped to the floor, stopping only when it powered down with a sharp whine, dropping a preoccupied Torin to the floor.

Without thinking, Torin pulled his hands in front of him to push himself to his knees, then remembered his bound wrists—but his hands came free anyway. He glanced down at the ground in surprise to see his mangled cuffs lying on the ground, split in two. The other prisoners gave him equally surprised looks.

"...A Jedi?" One of them wondered aloud. The others gasped and stared at Torin.

He stood there silently, looking from the pole to his cuffs and back to the reverent prisoners.

"N-no," Torin stammered. "I'm not—"

"Well I'll be damned," the grizzled Officer muttered. "Maybe we will get out of here."

Torin tried to say something, but the words caught in his throat.

"You gonna help the rest of us, or what?"

Torin ran over to the man and grabbed onto the pole he was shackled to, straining madly against the solid steel, but it wouldn't budge an inch.

"That's not gonna work," the officer said. "Do your Jedi thing."

 _Jedi thing?_

He certainly wasn't a Jedi—and he had no idea what he'd done, or how he had done it.

A beep came from the door, drawing his attention.

"Shit! Hide!" The officer hissed. Torin looked around the featureless metal cell, then ran to the front of the room and pressed himself flat against the wall. As soon as he did so, he heard a _whoosh_ as the door opened and an Imperial trooper stepped through. The soldier's head turned to the shattered pole that had once held Torin and the man spun about on his feet. Torin reached around the man and grabbed for his gun, pulling the rifle tight to his armored chest as the two of them smashed against the wall.

The wind knocked from his lungs, Torin grunted and pulled upward, dragging the rifle up the man's breastplate and onto his unarmored neck. Both men fell onto the ground on their sides and Torin pulled on the rifle with all of his might. The soldier kicked his legs, rocking back and forth as he tried to free himself. Eventually his legs slowed and his grip on the rifle loosened, then gave away completely. With a gasp Torin let the man go and rolled over onto his back, breathing rapidly.

Staggering to his feet, he picked up the blaster and pointed it at the unconscious Imperial soldier. His finger tensed against the trigger, he held the man in his sights for a few moments before sighing and letting the gun drop. He stumbled back over to the officer, then took aim at his cuffs.. He was still a bad shot, but at this distance it was hard to miss. The cuffs sparked wildly and the officer shook off the smoldering metal, standing to his feet and rubbing his wrists.

"Sergeant Picus," he said, nodding thankfully to Torin. "Seventh battalion. You in charge?"

Still catching his breath, Torin shook his head. "I'm just..."

He was just _what,_ exactly? Certainly not a leader—not even a soldier, really.

"I'm just a private."

The man gave him a confused look, then walked in front of the other prisoners.

"You." He pointed to the kid. "You said you used to work here?"

He nodded.

"Can you get that door open?" Picus pointed at a door just past the one the unconscious soldier had opened.

"I... I think so."

"I didn't ask if you _think_ you can, son. I asked if you can get that door open."

He nodded vigorously. "Yeah... Yeah, I can do it."

"Good." Picus turned to Torin. "Get him free first, then the others."

Torin hustled over to the kid, freeing him with a carefully placed shot. The young man ran to the door, yanking off a metal panel beside it and fiddling with the wires inside while Torin went to work on the other prisoners.

After a short time they were all gathered at the sealed doorway, watching with baited breath as their lock picker bit his lip and tapped two wires together. Sparks flew, and the doors before them lurched open, stopping after only opening a few inches. Two of the men stood on either side and dug their fingers into the crack, pulling open the doors with grunts and straining muscles.

The doors slid open with a grinding screech and the dozen men piled through into a long hallway that stretched far in either direction.

"Which way to the exit, kid?" Picus asked.

He rubbed his head and hummed to himself nervously before settling on a direction. "Right—the Imps will be using the loading docks, but we might be able to slip out the old staff exit."

"Then that's where we're going." Picus gestured for the men to follow and they began jogging down the hallway.

Even as he found himself following his orders, Torin envied the officer's composure. How did he manage to keep it together so well when faced with a situation like this? Did he not understand how dire their situation was? Did he not care?

No, he wasn't stupid—or crazy. He recognized the odds just as plainly as any of them—recognized them better, probably. He was keeping a strong front because that's what you did when faced with hell. That's all you _could_ do.

Stopping at another sealed door, Torin kept watch behind them as the others worked on getting it open.

"Almost got it. After this it's the reception area, then one more door to the landing pad."

A few moments more and the young man had the door open. The group rushed out into a spacious, well-decorated office lobby, Picus at the front and Torin bringing up the rear. Potted plants lined the walls and a bright red carpet ran down the center of the room.

All eyes were on the sealed blast doors standing between them and sweet, sweet freedom. If the kid could get those open—

The group stopped in their tracks as the bulkheads at the front of the room began to open. Yellow light flooded in, forcing them to shield their eyes. A dozen figures spread evenly across the threshold of the doorway were illuminated by the low sun, casting long shadows into the rapidly brightening room. The centermost one was taller than the others, and Torin pointed the rifle in his hands at the figure. As the door opened further and their eyes adjusted to the daylight spilling in, Torin's stomach lurched.

 _No... not her. Not now._

The red woman, the Sith, stood in the center of the large doorway, flanked by a dozen soldiers. Her lightsaber hung at her side, unused, but he knew that she didn't need a weapon to kill every single one of them—she _was_ the weapon.

"Drop it!" The man next to her shouted. Torin swallowed, looking at the firing line of Imperial soldiers, all of whom had their weapons trained on him. He glanced at Picus, who nodded to Torin. He lowered the blaster and knelt down slowly, placing the gun on the ground.

"What is my prisoner doing out of his cell, commander?" She turned her head ever so slightly to the uniformed officer standing to her right, though she kept her eyes fixed firmly on Torin.

The officer, a short, corpulent man wearing a cap marked with the imperial insignia, responded nervously. "We had so few, my lady. It seemed economical to keep them together—"

She rolled her eyes and raised her hand, cutting him off. "I wasn't asking about this other trash."

"You—" She pointed a clawed gauntlet at Torin. "Come over here."

The other men moved ever so slightly towards him, closing ranks—a futile gesture, but he felt his heart swell in his chest nonetheless.

Seeing that Torin wasn't moving, she narrowed her eyes and gestured at the soldiers beside her. "It seems numbers have made you feel brave. Do I need to have these soldiers thin the herd?"

He could almost hear his fellows' breath catch in their throats. Swallowing, he took a single, slow step forward, then broke into a steady walk towards the woman, fists clenched and eyes fixed on the ground before him.

"Very wise," she said as he reached her. He felt a metal glove on his shoulder, and the pressure grew until he was forced to his knees.

"Are you a Jedi?" She asked.

"W-what?" He stammered. Hard steel smacked him across the face in response. He tasted iron, and liquid pooled in his mouth.

"I asked you a question."

"No," he rasped, coughing up blood onto his shirt with his head hung low.

The woman tapped her chin, gilded chin tendrils shaking as she considered the man kneeling before her.

"You two." She gestured at a pair of soldiers. "Put him aboard my ship."

Torin felt hands grab him by the arms and drag him forward, carried behind the Sith woman as all four made their way through the doorway.

"And Commander..." The woman stopped and turned back to the Imperial officer. "Do dispose of the rest of them."

The man bowed to her, then directed his attention to the remaining prisoners. Torin craned his head back to look at them, and his eyes connected with those of Okins. He nodded at Torin, his face a stone mask of resignation. This time, there was no defiant grin to be had.

"Fire!" The commander shouted, followed by a hail of blaster fire from the Imperial troops.

"No!" Torin cried out, his voice barely audible over the sounds of the slaughter. He watched in horror as the last of the prisoners slumped to the ground, wisps of smoke trailing off of their freshly-charred corpses. His eyes remained transfixed on the horrible sight until the door behind him finally closed.

The woman cast a surreptitious glance back at Torin, smiling as she strode towards her waiting ship outside. She was going to enjoy this.


	3. A Dinner Guest

Torin was hauled onto the launchpad by Imperial guards, then up the ramp of a fearsome-looking starship somewhere between an interceptor and luxury cruiser. The trio made a beeline for the cargo bay on the far side of the ship, going up a flight of stairs and a communications room before reaching an austere room littered with unidentifiable containers, crates, and backup ship parts. An interrogation chair was bolted to the floor in the middle of the room and they tossed him into it, strapping his arms and legs down tightly amidst his protests. Once he was secure they exited, leaving Torin with silence—his swirling thoughts and the memory of the slaughter he'd just witnessed filled the gap, assaulting his mind.

The door opened, and a black robed figure stepped inside the room. She pulled down her hood, revealing the scarlet face of his captor. Her jet-black hair was tied up in a tight bun, and her armor was gone, save for two red-rimmed shoulder guards atop her robe. Necklaces and arcane totems hanging from her neck clinked together as she walked—Torin could only guess at their significance. Was _this_ what passed for casual wear for a Sith?

As she grew closer to his chair, he mused on how less threatening she looked without the battlesuit. She was a good deal shorter now, maybe an inch or two shorter than himself. Her robe clung to the lithe form beneath it, curves and contours illuminated by the the lights lining the walls.

 _Perish the thought._

She may not have looked like a murderous titan at the moment, but she was still a Sith, one who had ordered the execution of a dozen defenseless men without a second thought.

Pulling up a stool and sitting down beside Torin, she grasped his left hand in her own and turned it over, examining it thoughtfully. His breathing quickened and he snatched his hand away, straining against the wrist straps holding down his arms.

"Before I captured you—the first time, that is—you did something. I want you to do it again."

He tilted his head back and then swung it forward, spitting at her. She blinked as spittle struck her face, then wiped it off with the corner of her sleeve. Torin sat back, fully expecting some horrific torture in retribution—or at least a slap across the face.

"This will be easier if you cooperate." Her voice was soothing, almost _caring,_ but he knew better than to buy into any cheap front she might put on.

"You killed them," he stated flatly, eyes fixed forward.

"Hmm. Yes, that tends to happen in war."

He turned to her, meeting those twin yellow suns burning in her skull with a glare of equal intensity.

"That wasn't war. They were _prisoners."_

"Oh?" She stood up and circled around to the back of his chair, her hand trailing up his arm before coming to rest on his shoulder. "As I recall, they were engaged in a violent breakout."

Torin remained silent.

"How did they manage that, I wonder?"

A hand fell on his other shoulder and he flinched.

"Were they nearly delivered to freedom by some unpredictable element, some spanner in the works?"

Hot breath caressed his ear, and he squeezed his eyes shut.

"If you can do it twice, you can do it a third time. Show me."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

She sighed. "I suppose it doesn't matter, anyway. What use is raw power if its application is impotent?"

Fingers dug into his flesh, a deep-tissue massage that had shivers crawling up his spine.

"You couldn't defeat me..." She trailed off, then shrugged. "Well, we can forgive you that one." Long fingers extended over his throat briefly before returning to his shoulders.

"You couldn't even help your friends escape." She sighed wistfully. "And you were _so_ close. It's too bad, really. You only made one fatal mistake."

He turned his head back slightly, awaiting her words curiously.

"You showed _mercy._ That insidious little weakness that drives a wedge between you and power until you find that it's become a knife in your back."

Thinking back, he went over the day's events.

 _The guard_ — _the one he couldn't make himself kill._

"Ah, there it is." She peeked around the back of the chair and examined his face, smiling. "Realization." Her fingers drummed rhythmically on him. "In a way, _you_ killed your friends. I was just protecting the men under my command—that is what leaders do, after all. Some of us just do it _better_ than others." There was no sarcastic sense of comfort in her words, only venomous disdain.

Torin bit the inside of his lip hard enough to draw blood. He'd never hated anyone more in his life than that woman, in that moment. Imperials, the Force, Sith—he didn't care about any of that. The singular thought occupying his mind was the desire to pound his fists into her over and over until she was just a greasy smear on the bulkhead. He twisted and wrenched in the chair, straining against his binds. The chair rocked back and forth, remaining firmly anchored to the floor where it was bolted. Then, the stool the woman had been seated on shook on its legs, rattling against the metal floor. On the far wall, crates and boxes slid off of shelves, falling to the ground and spilling their contents.

The woman looked around excitedly, stroking the sides of Torin's neck with her thumbs, intensifying his revulsion and the miniature storm brewing in the storeroom. A crack echoed from a corner, and she saw one of the shelves began to crumple as if some unseen hand were crushing it in its grasp. Reaching to her side, she pulled out a collar and lifted it over the back of Torin's chair, then placed it around his neck. As soon as he felt the metal half-circle make contact, metal prongs shot out of it, snaking their way into the back of his neck like barbed arrows.

He cried out in pain, and the tempest of rage around him came to a standstill. The woman circled around and undid the restraints at his hands and feet, then stepped backwards and folded her arms. Grimacing, Torin brought a shaky hand up to the collar and felt it. It was smooth and minimalistic, save two small circular electrodes on either side. Still reeling from the pain, he summoned all the strength he could and staggered out of his chair, lurching at his Sith captor.

Pain shot through his body, bringing him swiftly to his knees. Electricity surged between the collar's two electrodes, coursing through his body in a circuitous path that fried every pain receptor it came into contact with. He burned from the inside out, a million red-hot tongs pressed against his insides and held there without end.

The Sith pressed a button on her bracelet and the electricity stopped, though the pain remained.

"I think you get the picture, don't you?"

Pushing himself up onto all fours, Torin nodded fervidly.

"Good boy. Get back in your seat."

He crawled his way back up into the interrogation chair, this time sans bindings—save the implicit one around his neck.

"Rest up. It's not long to Balmorra, now."

She left with a haughty laugh, and the door shut behind her. Torin slumped down in his chair, too tired for anger.

* * *

The sky was blue. That, at least, was comforting—it reminded him of home. Balmorra had blue skies, green grass, and much of the same flora and fauna you could find on any core world. It was also firmly under Imperial control.

In the span of two days he'd gone from a battle-torn city split between the Republic and Empire, to an Imperial prison, to a planet firmly under Imperial occupation. Every passing hour seemed to wrench any hope of escape further and further from his grasp—he gave it another day before he was on Dromund Kass itself.

"Did I tell you to stop?" The Sith woman snapped at him from the end of the ship's exit ramp. Torin hurried downward, joining the woman in the ankle-deep clouds of steam pooling on the ground of the landing pad. He'd learned quickly that it was not smart to keep her waiting. He hated her—hated the idea of being at her beck and call—but he'd grown to hate the shock collar digging into the nape of his neck just as much. The Sith used any excuse she could find to switch it on, seeming to enjoy watching him writhe on the ground in agony. He took some solace in the fact that if he obeyed and avoided being shocked, he at least deprived her of that sick pleasure.

"You're to address me as 'Mistress.' Is that clear?"

Torin twisted his nose in disgust. "Yes," he muttered.

She stared at him expectantly. He swallowed and cast his eyes down to the mists on the ground. "Yes... Mistress."

"Good." She didn't sound very satisfied with his degree of obedience, but the landing pad was littered with Imperial personnel—did she not want to cause a scene by sending him writhing to the ground? No, that wasn't it—more likely she didn't want to draw attention to a slave that wasn't completely and totally under her thumb. _That_ was the true social faux pas for the Sith.

 _Slave._

Was that what he was now? He ran a hand over the collar as he followed the woman through the starport terminal. He still didn't quite know what his situation was. She saw some sort of value in him because of the... _abilities_ he'd displayed, that much was clear. He didn't have any other prized skills, and he certainly wasn't a high-value prisoner in the Republic's eyes. What was he to her, then? A science experiment? A lab specimen? A momentary playful diversion?

The pair passed all sorts of people in the starport halls—soldiers, dock workers, merchants, beleaguered clerical officials—nearly all human, save a few red-skinned Sith of varying hues. His impulse was to cry for help: 'I've been kidnapped', he wanted to scream. Then he noticed that amid the crowds, none were giving Torin a second glance despite the conspicuous collar wrapped around his neck. Was this _normal_ in the Empire? The nobility enslaved who they wished, and that was that?

In his short journey to Balmorra, he'd simply traded one prison for another—this one spanning entire star systems.

Stopping at a kiosk near the end of the terminal, the robed Sith tapped a finger on the desk, drawing the attention of the pre-occupied officer behind it. He looked up slowly with one eyebrow raised, snapping to attention and clearing his throat when he saw the woman standing before him.

"Good day, my lady. Pleasant trip?"

She looked around, clearly bored by the trite pleasantries. "Oh, yes."

"Very good, my lady." He took the digital passport she slid across the desk and swiped it on the terminal in front of him, waiting with baited breath until a confirmation appeared on the screen.

"Welcome home, Lady Vathamma." She took the card back as he slid it back to her with a trembling hand. Surely he encountered his share of Sith in his duties—how was he still that scared of them? Or was it _her,_ specifically?

"Vathamma," Torin whispered under his breath. The name felt like venom dripping off of his tongue—he'd just as soon call her 'Mistress'.

The officer gestured at Torin. "And he is..."

She glanced at Torin and waved a hand dismissively. "I don't know its name. Just mark it down as cargo."

"Yes, my lady." A few seconds with fingers busy at the terminal, and Torin was earmarked as cargo—apparently he hadn't even made the cut as a slave.

"Do make sure my cargo reaches my manor, yes?"

He nodded vigorously. "Of course, my lady."

She stood there a moment before jerking her head at Torin. " _All_ of my cargo."

"Oh, right," the man stammered, waving over two uniformed guards stationed at a nearby hangar door. Satisfied, Vathamma continued out of the terminal, leaving Torin with his unenviable company.

* * *

Somehow, his Imperial escort was even harder to read than the Sith Lord who had left him a short while ago. They had marched him out of the airport and stuck him in a land cruiser without a single word said during the trip out of the city. The black and grey oppressiveness of the Imperial architecture surrounding the airport gradually gave way to a more gentle complement of curved white walls capped by blue domes that fit in naturally with the Balmorran landscape.

The cruiser stopped in front of a large, palatial home consisting of several linked circular structures. One of the troopers hauled him out by the arm and ushered him towards the front door. A guard in blue ceremonial armor met the guard with a nod, taking charge of Torin and bring him inside. He couldn't help but feel like a huttball, being handed off over and over to some unseen end.

He had pictured Vathamma living in some sterile grey cell with nothing but a Sith Holocron for decoration, but apparently she was able to appreciate the finer things in life—though he doubted she paid for them.

They passed through a short hall into a sitting area. Cushioned benches lined the walls and a small fountain bubbled peacefully in the center of the room. Gods, he was thirsty. He had half a mind to stick his head into the pool and take a drink, but he didn't relish the thought of being caught doing so by the home's owner. His stomach growled, reminding him that he was starving as well—lest he forget.

Desperate for something to occupy his mind he scanned the walls. Faint outlines were left where paintings or portraits once hung, faint reminders of a time before the occupation. Apparently the artistic taste of the previous owner hadn't agreed with Vathamma. A window spanned the length of a quarter of the room's wall opposite Torin, running from floor to ceiling. The sun was setting below the city skyline in the distance, lending a bit of color to the otherwise dreary Imperial metropolis. He watched as day turned into night, unaware of exactly how many hours passed by as he sat there. He should have been thankful for the opportunity to rest, but he was too anxious, hungry, and thirsty to actually enjoy the respite.

Beside him, tall wooden doors that looked like they'd been hewn from a single massive tree creaked open. A guard stepped in and motioned for Torin to follow.

All eyes were on Torin as he entered a spacious dining room. The wall to the left was dominated by a window that lent a picturesque view of Balmorra's mountains. The moon shone brightly overhead through a skylight in the ceiling, illuminating an ornate table that stretched down the center of the room. On the sides were seated four men and two woman. Vathamma was at the head of the table, presiding over the lavish feast spread across it. Despite his situation, he felt his eyes drawn to the food.

"Who is this?" One of the men asked. He was a pureblood Sith like Vathamma, though his skin was orange and his tightly-cropped hair had a brown tinge to it. Was he more human than her?

"I'm familiar with your work on the anthropological conditions that give rise to Force users, Lord Andar." Vathamma scooted her chair back and gestured at Torin. "Can you believe that I found one on Uracco?"

Andar looked the young man up and down. Messy hair, unwashed clothes, tired eyes—he must have been a pitiful sight. "No, I really can't," he replied flatly.

Vathamma rolled her eyes and smiled. "Your apprentice is waiting outside, yes? I had a show in mind."

The pureblood turned back to her. "Oh?"

"Yes, a duel! Surely your apprentice can handle this wretched thing."

He glanced back at Torin and smirked. "Very well." He took his napkin off of his lap and tossed it into the table. "Though this would have been best witnessed on an empty stomach."

The other guests laughed, and Vathamma called over a guard to whisper into his ear. He left swiftly, returning a short time later with a human clad in a simple black tunic, his pants tucked tightly into leather boots. Sticking out of his high-collared shirt was a thin, pale head, hairless save a neatly-kept goatee that ran around his chin. Two dark, beady eyes were set deep in his sockets, and they examined Torin coolly as he entered the room and approached him.

Andar leaned back in his seat, casting a glance to Vathamma. "You're not going to give him a weapon?"

"No, he wouldn't know what to do with it."

He shrugged and turned back to his apprentice, giving the man a permissive wave.

The apprentice shifted one foot back and drew his lightsaber, then coiled, ready to strike.

 _Like a snake._

Torin took a step back and looked around the dining hall in a panic. Not that he expected aid from any of them, but he couldn't believe that _this_ was how it would end for him. Killed in battle? That meant something. Dying in a prison camp? He would curse the heavens until his last breath, but at least it made sense.

Executed for sport at the dinner table of some decadent Sith lords in lieu of dessert? He couldn't wrap his head around it. He wanted to laugh, but he couldn't—not with that yellow blade of plasma poised to strike him down.

All he could do was hope and pray that whatever had saved him twice did so a second time. Could you pray to the force? He'd heard it said to 'trust in the Force', but he doubted he could do that. Not sincerely, anyway. At that moment he would just as soon pray to whatever dark deities would listen if they would get him the hell out of there.

A soft _whirr_ broke the silence, and a light shone through the window spanning the far wall. A passing hovercar? No, this was far too close and it wasn't moving.

The seated guests turned in their chairs and squinted into the headlights shining through the window. The apprentice watched it as well, though he kept Torin firmly in the corner of his vision.

"Do something about that," Vathamma shouted at one of the guards. He ran to the window, polearm in hand.

When the man was feet from the glass, all hell broke loose. The window shattered, jagged shards raining to the floor. The guard's chest exploded, made into a sieve by dozens of rounds that went right through him and buried themselves in the far wall. Shells streaked across the room, ripping furniture to shreds. The guests shot to their feet, though some were slower than others. Andar. Vathamma, and one other man sprinted to the end of the hall opposite Torin, diving against the wall with hands held over their heads. Two others, a human man and woman, remained standing at the table with lightsaber drawn, trying in vain to deflect the assault from outside. The metal slugs sailed through their sabers unscathed, mangling their bodies and sending them slumping against the table.

Torin pressed himself up against the heavy double doors leading out of the room. He was too afraid to try opening them to slip out, lest he get caught in the hail of gunfire.

Another explosion of glass—this time from overhead the dining table. A heavily armored, helmeted figure dropped through the skylight, landing on the dinner table. As he did so the hail of gunfire parted, now confined to the far side of the room where the Sith hunkered down on the ground. Blaster in hand, he looked down at the dinner table and shot twice through it. Both shots found their mark, splattering the heads of the guests who had thought themselves safe under the heavy metal fixture.

Out of the corner of his eye Torin saw the apprentice he had nearly been forced to fight charging at his new opponent, lightsaber held overhead. He jumped onto the table, yelling and bringing his blade down on the assailant's raised forearm. Torin had expected to see a severed arm flop to the table gruesomely, but the lightsaber slid uselessly off of the man's heavily armored bracer.

Having thought he would be able to end the fight with a single decisive strike, the apprentice had left himself wide open. His opponent smacked him hard across the face with a gloved hand, sending him flying off of the table and sliding across the room. His lightsaber fell from his hand as he flew, sliding to a stop just in front of Torin.

Before the apprentice could do more than lift his back up off of the floor, the armored man made his next move. Rockets on his back flared, sending him flying towards his target. Torin watched, unmoving, as a wrist blade extended from his bracer and was thrust through the apprentice's throat. He gurgled weakly, blood dripping down the back of his neck—Thorin could just barely see the tip of the blade peaking out.

The attacker pulled the blade out and let the man's head drop to the floor. His attention immediately turned to Torin, and the lightsaber mere feet away from him. Torin glanced at the masked intruder, then to the weapon. Torin shot forward and scrambled for the weapon, nearly falling face-first onto the floor. As he ran he looked up to see a blaster pointing him in the face.

Torin stopped and raised his hands, palms pointed forward in the universal sign of surrender. He wasn't going to die for these people—if you could even call them that—and the attacker wasn't after him. He was just an innocent bystander caught up in the insanity of Sith politics.

The attacker squeezed the trigger, and time began to move in slow motion. Torin saw a flash of light and the discharge of plasma, an effusion of energy that spilled out of the barrel before making its way towards him. He'd heard that things seemed to slow down when adrenaline kicked in—hell, he'd _lived it_ —but this was different. The blaster bolt stopped moving a few inches away from the barrel, and Torin tried to move. He couldn't move his head, couldn't move _any_ part of his body besides his eyes. Head pounding and heart racing, he swiveled his eyes around the room.

It was... still. Still, and quiet, save a low vibration that pulsated in the background of his senses.

Thousands of rounds of ammunition hung in the air like bronze rain drops, suspended by the same force that was keeping superheated plasma from turning his head to ash. The man in front of him wasn't moving, save for a violent tremble that ran through the arm that held his blaster.

His hand released the trigger and jerked away from the gun before freezing again. Whatever was happening to Torin—or whatever he was doing—his opponent was working against it.

The gloved hand jerked again and made its way down the man's armored side, index finger slowly extending as he reached his belt. The humming filling Torin's ears and the vibrations rocking his vision intensified, as if his consciousness were in danger of being ripped free of his body.

At last the man's finger reached its destination—a single small button on his utility belt. He tapped it, and Torin was immediately struck by a concussive force of light and sound that threw him back to the floor. The blaster bolt sailed above him as he fell, close enough for him to feel its heat on his face.

Pushing himself up off of his back by his elbows, he caught a glimpse of the car outside pulling away from the window at full speed, their attacker nowhere to be seen. The last of the bullets held in the air clattered to the floor, and the survivors stood to their feet, casting wary glances at the shattered window.

Andar straightened his jacket and smoothed out the wrinkles as he walked over to where his apprentice lay. Vathamma followed, shouting hurried orders to her guards on a wrist communicator.

"Please, accept my _deepest_ apologies Lord Andar—"

The Sith held up a hand. "He was weak." Andar nudged the lifeless body with his foot, then picked up the man's lightsaber. "Couldn't even handle a _single_ assassin. Pathetic."

Torin had been the 'pathetic' one just a short time ago—status was a fragile thing here, it seemed.

Andar turned to Torin and gestured at him with the inactive lightsaber. "I must say, I'm truly impressed by your apprentice."

"Apprentice?" Vathamma echoed, looking between the two men.

 _Apprentice?_

"To think they had Force users like this in the Republic core worlds—unclaimed by the Jedi order, no less."

The last survivor reached the trio. A tall, thin man with slicked back hair and a garish blue outfit. He looked more like an Outer Rim merchant than any Sith that Torin had ever imagined.

"The shock collar, the ragged Republic uniform... well played!"

Andar smirked. "Yes, very clever." He looked back at Torin. "I see why you didn't feel a lightsaber necessary for a demonstration. Tell me, boy: how long ago did your powers manifest?"

"I—" Abject horror displayed plainly on his face, Torin looked to Vathamma. She was smiling pleasantly, but her eyes burned with untamed fury. Her eyes darted to Andar to confirm that he was still fixated on Torin, then she mouthed two words with her ruby lips. _"Kill you."_

"Very recently," he stammered, swallowing the lump forming in his throat. Andar frowned and stared at him. "—my Lord," Torin added hastily.

"Hmm..." The Sith turned to face Vathamma, and Torin exhaled a breath he hadn't even realized he'd been holding. "It's good to see that you've found someone of promise during your deployment. Your last student was, shall we say, _lacking._ " He looked down at his apprentice's body. "Not that I don't hold myself to the same standards," he sighed. "All that's left to do is to try again."

Vathamma bowed shallowly. "It is as you say, Lord Andar."

Andar dusted off his hands. "I'll be taking my leave for the evening, then. I'm sure you have—" He looked around the wrecked room. "— _matters_ to attend to."

He left the dining room, followed by the merchant. Guards filed in, hauling away the dead apprentice and the dinner guests still spilling blood beneath the table. The procession worked its way around Torin, and as soon as the last guard left he realized that he hadn't moved a muscle—he was simply too overwhelmed.

Vathamma stood by the broken window, loose strands of hair tossed around by the gentle night breeze. Her eyes transfixed on the distant mountains, she hissed a single order to Torin.

"Get out."

The words failed to pierce his daze and he simply stood there, insensate.

"GET OUT!" She screamed. Shards of glass lying on the floor shot in all directions in a circle around her, scraping against the tile. The last few pieces hanging from the window's frame fell, landing on the concrete outside.

Snapped back to reality, Torin rushed to the exit and heaved open one of the heavy wooden doors, letting it slam shut behind him. More exhausted than ever, he slumped against the wood and slid to the floor, arms propped up on his knees.

The corridor was empty—no guards, no guests, not even a servant or another slave. He could run, and no one would stop him.

Then what? Where would he go, what would he do?

No, there was no running away from this. All that was left again was to hope, and to pray—pray that even if he was in hell, its Lords were at least feeling generous.


	4. At First Sight

They say that a day of hard work leads to a good night's sleep. That might be true in the usual cases, but Torin's peculiar brand of exhaustion led to a long, restless night of endless tossing and turning. The battle, the prison camp, the torture aboard his abductor's ship, nearly dying at the hands of an assassin—all of those moments played over and over in his mind, in the dream world as well as the waking one. He'd been through more than most people would in their entire lives, and sleep seemed far too mundane and peaceful for someone with the life he'd been thrown into a few days prior.

When he awoke, he was in the same bedroom that he had been led into by a guard the night before. It was such a simple thing, to wake up in an actual _bed_ in the same room he had fallen asleep in, but he was content to count the small blessings given recent events. Balmorra's sun shone brightly outside the window next to his bedside, having taken the place of the moon that had illuminated his room with its ghostly light when sleep had first overtaken him.

Sitting up and groggily looking about, he took stock of his surroundings—something he had failed to do in last night's state of total exhaustion. A single door opposite him led out of the room, and a small table sat at the foot of his bed. On top of it was folded a set of clothes. He stood to his feet and looked at the ratty garments he had been wearing since the battle, and gave them a sniff, then recoiled.

 _Ugh._

He picked up the clothes on the table and examined them. A dark grey tunic and pants, similar in style to the one worn by the apprentice he'd seen butchered the night before. Looking down, he noticed a pair of boots under the table as well. Torin began pulling off his clothes, tossing them into the corner of the room and putting on the fresh outfit. He tucked his pants into his boots, then walked over to the window and looked outward.

Birds flew overhead blue-domed buildings, greeting the morning. He envied them and their simple problems. Though, come to think of it, his problems were actually pretty simple as well—unfortunately, that didn't make them any easier to solve.

A gentle knock came at the bedroom door, and it slid open. A red-faced woman in a simple off-white tunic stood in the doorway. For a moment Torin thought he'd have to endure the suffocating presence of another Sith—then he noticed the pair of fleshy horns protruding from the back of her head, as well as the twin head-tails draped over her shoulders. They were white, with jagged blue stripes that ran over their length. Her face was similarly marked with two patches of white skin around brilliant blue eyes. He knew what Togruta looked like, but he'd never actually _seen_ one in real life before. As his eyes traveled down the fleshy tendrils hanging from her head, he noticed the plate of food in her hand. Without thinking he leapt at her, grabbing at the plate. She yelped, dropping it and spilling the food to the floor.

She crouched down and flipped the plate back upright.

"Sorry!" Torin knelt on the rug and began picking up fruit and bits of meat, piling it onto the plate. He noticed that her hands had stopped moving and he tilted his head up to look at her. She was staring at him like an animal caught in a cruiser's headlights, mouth agape.

"...What?" He wondered, looking from side to side uneasily.

She cleared her throat and shook her head, then resumed cleaning up the food. "Nothing, my lord. My apologies."

 _My lord?_

So she was a servant—or a slave, like him. Why was she addressing him so respectfully? Had Vathamma told her staff that Torin was her apprentice?

The pair rose to their feet and the Togruta stared downward obediently, plate in hand. Despite never having seen one of her kind before, she was the first living being he'd felt some degree of kinship with since his arrival on Balmorra. Like him, she clearly didn't want to be here. Eyeing the mess on the platter, Torin snatched a green fruit off of it and brushed it on his shirt.

"Thanks," he said, then walked to the window on the opposite side of the room. In the faint reflection he could see the woman bow to his turned back and leave as quietly as she had entered.

* * *

The Togruta returned a short time later to tell Torin that her mistress 'desired his presence', then led him out of the bedroom and through the manor. The place was a veritable museum, every spare room filled with endless artifacts. A cracked stone slab with indecipherable writing, a ritualistic mask hung above a jeweled robe, and _far_ more weapons than he could count. An anthropologist would have a field day here. He had to wonder where it had all come from—probably pillaged from helpless worlds on the Sith Empire's initial rampage across the galaxy. The spoils of war, as they say.

He was led into a room at the end of a long hall and ushered inside. Nomi waited outside, shutting the door behind him. It was dimly lit, three windows with blinds pulled down serving as the sole sources of what little light illuminated the hexagonal space.

Vathamma sat in her usual black robe on a raised dais in the center of the room, legs crossed and hands folded in her lap. Her eyes were closed, and her chest rose and fell with deep, controlled breaths. Torin stood in the entryway, waiting for her to notice his presence. Blades of varying shapes and sizes lined the walls, some of them positively ancient looking. Some were mere handles, without blades—lightsabers? He could only guess at how she'd acquired them. Murdered Jedi? Fatal duels with rival Lords? Maybe Sith received new ones when they graduated from apprentice to master.

Looking back to the woman silently meditating before him, he saw that she still seemed to be unaware of him.

" _Ahem._ " He cleared his throat.

Eyes remaining closed, she tapped a finger on her bracelet. Torin fell to the floor, every muscle in his body contracting painfully as thousands of volts coursed through his body.

"A slave should kneel," she said calmly.

The shocks continued, and he realized that mercy wasn't in the cards—she meant what she said. Torin fought through the pain and forced himself up onto one knee, grimacing and teetering from side to side.

The Sith powered down the collar and opened her eyes. Her lip curled in disdain, she examined him like a piece of refuse that had drifted into her chambers.

"Killing you now would be... _politically inconvenient._ That is the _only_ reason you're still alive."

 _Leave it to a Sith to shy away from killing because it's 'inconvenient'._

"You're going to accompany me on a little trip," she said. Her manipulative way of speaking had returned, though thinly-veiled annoyance and anger still simmered just below the surface—he didn't need any sort of Force powers to sense that. "You enjoyed our last little jaunt, didn't you?"

He recalled being strapped to that cold interrogation chair and shocked repeatedly. A jolt ran down his spine and he shivered reflexively, drawing a cruel smile from the Sith.

"Of course you did." She raised her hand up, letting her robe slip down her arm as she held her communicator up to her mouth. "Nomi, get in here."

The door opened and someone entered. Torin glanced back to see the Togruta, head bowed and hands clasped in her usual subservient pose.

"Gather my things," the woman on the dais commanded, pointing at the door. "We're leaving the planet in an hour."

He debated asking _where_ exactly they were leaving for. Did she want to lure him onto her ship, only to jettison him into space once they left Balmorra? Unlikely. She could kill him right there and leave no trace of a body behind—he was sure that she had the resources to do so. Was she going to sell him into slavery, pawning him off onto someone else? A definite possibility, but how was that any different for her than just killing him?

"Rise," she commanded. He stood to his feet as soon as she barked the order, a little worried about how well she had trained him with that damned collar. It certainly didn't help him shake the feeling that he was some pet who had grown too rambunctious and was no longer wanted by its master—not that he would miss Vathamma's company one bit. He just preferred that when they separated, it was with his freedom and limbs intact.

She rose from her seated position and walked off of her meditation platform. As she passed Torin, he worked up the courage to speak.

"Where are you taking me?" The words croaked out of him.

The Sith stopped and stood still for a moment, then turned back and rested her hands on his shoulders. His body reacted instantly to her touch, all the energy instantly sapped from his body. She seemed to be well aware of the effect she had on him.

"Do you think I would hesitate for a _single moment_ to kill you if your existence became a problem for me?" She whispered in his ear, her words sickeningly saccharine.

Knowing the answer perfectly well, he swallowed and shook his head slowly from side to side.

"As long as we understand each other." She ran a hand down the side of his face before withdrawing, leaving Torin alone to wipe away the beads of sweat forming on his forehead.

* * *

The starport was just as busy as the first time the pair had passed through it, though this time he found himself fighting the flow of travelers coming from the crowded docking bays. Vathamma walked in front, followed shortly after by Torin. Trailing behind them was Nomi, who carried a precarious-looking stack of boxes with a handbag balanced on top. She bounced to and fro in the crowds, muttering hurried apologies with each shoulder check as she struggled to see where she was going. Casting worried glances back at her, Torin finally stopped and turned around, moving to help her.

"Where do you think you're going?" Vathamma asked, halting in her tracks. She looked at the Togruta, then back to Torin. "That's what slaves are _for,_ you imbecile. Stop again and I'll gut you."

She spun about and continued onward. Torin gritted his teeth, eventually tearing his eyes away from Nomi and following the Sith woman. A few moments later he heard the scuffle of feet behind him, then a crash. Nomi was sprawled out on the floor on her backside, surrounded by the boxes she had been carrying. Above her stood a tall, well-built man with sharp features and dark slicked back hair. He wore an ornate grey outfit with yellow trim. The flamboyant outfit reminded Torin of the plumage of some bird of paradise—though the man wearing it looked more like a bird of prey.

A crowd had formed around the two of them, keeping a safe distance from the pair as they looked from the slave to the very angry man standing above her. Nomi rubbed her backside, wincing, then opened her eyes to see who she had run into. Her eyes went wide with fear and a short gasp escaped her throat. Head facing the ground, she stood to her feet with her hands clasped in front of her obediently, and waited.

After an awkward silence, she spoke. "My apologies, my Lord—"

 _Slap!_

The man struck her across the face with the back of his hand. She fell back to the ground, caving in one of the boxes with her elbow as the force of the blow sent her sprawling. She held her cheek with her hand, eyes still averted submissively.

Torin's heart seized in his chest. Fists clenched, he marched over to the man and cocked his fist back. The target of his rage turned to face him just in time for Torin's knuckles to connect with the side of his face, a loud _smack_ echoing in the pitch-silent hall. A few muffled gasps and whispers were the only other sound as the onlookers glanced at each other uneasily.

"You _dare?"_ The man raged, staring down Torin with flared nostrils and wild eyes.

Vathamma rushed over, looking between her two servants and the man bearing down on Torin.

"What's happening here?" She demanded, grabbing her stubborn slave by the arm and pulling him away from the man.

The Sith massaged his jaw lightly, clearly none too flustered by the punch. "Your _slave_ struck me. Is this how poorly you manage your property, Lady Vathamma?"

She pressed her lips together tightly and flashed Torin a fearsome look.

"He's not my slave, Lord Sabinus," she responded after a moment of thought. "He's my apprentice."

Eyes examining the one who had hit him, the Sith's anger became tempered by curiosity. "You would assault a Lord over _that?"_ He pointed at Nomi, who still lay on the ground, though she was now watching the confrontation with panicked eyes.

"Yes," Torin hissed through clenched teeth.

Sabinus looked at the Togruta and laughed. "Don't tell me she's your _whore!"_

Torin pulled his arm back, preparing to punch him again, but was restrained by Vathamma's surprisingly strong grip on his wrist. The admonishing look she gave him did little to suppress his rising anger, but he gradually calmed himself enough to lower his hand back to his side.

"I hold nothing but respect for you, my lady—" he said to the Sith woman before turning back to Torin. The tall man leaned over to look him straight in the eyes. "—But you know what this means, don't you?"

She looked around at the assembled crowd, then closed her eyes and nodded. "Yes, I know."

"Good," he said, standing upright with his hands clasped behind his back. "Then I'll see you at the Kaggath, boy—in three days."

Sabinus spun around and walked away, the assembled crowd giving him a wide berth as he passed. Beside Torin, Vathamma was shaking her head.

"What just happened?" He asked her.

She released his hand, pushing it away from her. "You just signed your death warrant."


	5. The Noose Tightens

Whatever Torin had done—he still wasn't exactly sure—it had put a quick end to Vathamma's planned off-world sojourn. The trio that had made their way to the starport headed back to the Sith's manor just as quickly, with an awkward silence hanging in the cabin of the private cruiser. Nomi had offered all sorts of gratuitous apologies to her master while Torin sat with his arms crossed, fuming in silence. He was still angry at the man he'd come into conflict with—Sabinus, he'd heard him called—but on some level he also felt that his show of anger served as a protective front against whatever sea of rage was fomenting in the red woman seated across from him. Though she hadn't said a single word to him, her eyes hadn't left his the whole drive through the city—and that said plenty.

Once inside the home, the Togruta slave excused herself as she hurried the luggage she had been charged with back to wherever it had come from. Vathamma walked a short ways down the entry hall, then spun and smacked a piece of pottery off of its stand. The vase shattered to the floor, and she glowered at Torin with her jaw clenched tightly. He could see the muscles working in her face, her teeth grinding furiously.

"You _imbecile!"_ She shouted. "What would possess you to do such a thing?"

He met her gaze and stood fast, his own anger burning too hot for him to be concerned with the ever-present collar around his neck.

"Isn't that obvious?" He asked, casting a glance at the stairs Nomi had just ascended.

The woman rolled her eyes. "She's a _slave,"_ she said in exasperation. "A _thing!"_

Making no attempt to hide his disgust, he looked at the shattered vase on the ground.

"Yeah, I see how you treat your things."

As soon as the words left his mouth, he found that he couldn't draw air back in—like hands were closed around his throat, squeezing tightly. Looking back to Vathamma, he saw that she stood with one arm raised, clenched hand shaking.

"Lord Sabinus is the apprentice of Balmorra's _governor._ A man with whom I have a _mutually beneficial_ working relationship with." Her glowing yellow eyes examined his own, searching for any sign of understanding.

"It seems you're too _stupid_ for that collar to teach you anything," she spat, marching towards him. "So I'll try something a bit simpler." The invisible grip on his throat tightened, constricting his blood flow as well as the oxygen desperately craved by his burning lungs. "Do you remember what I said I would do if you became even the _slightest_ inconvenience?"

He nodded, his face turning blue as he gripped his neck, trying in vain to pry off the unseen fingers suffocating him. Her grip tightened even further, and blackness began to overtake his vision.

 _This is it, then._

He fell to his knees, and air flooded his lungs as he felt her hand withdraw. Taking deep breaths in, he leaned forward on his hands and looked up at her in confusion.

"Unfortunately, killing you _now_ would be more inconvenient than ever." She stared down at him thoughtfully, chewing the inside of her lip. "No doubt word has already spread of your foolish display, and Lord Sabinus' response. The nobility will be expecting a duel."

 _Now I know what a 'Kaggath' is..._

She turned and began walking away, allowing Torin to stagger to his feet. He watched as she walked down the hall and plucked a sword off of a plaque on the wall, swishing it in the air experimentally a few times before returning to him. He took a step back, swallowing as she brought the tip of the sword up to his face. The silvery blade glinted meanly in the light shining in through the entryway, a straight edge terminating in a minimalistic gray pommel and hilt. It may have just been nerves, but he thought he could hear it humming as it sat within a foot of his ears.

"You'll be killed, of course," she stated with no hint of sadness. "But it'd look even worse if my _apprentice_ didn't show up at all." She brought the blade away from his face and thrust the handle into his chest, releasing it. He fumbled for the weapon, nearly dropping it to the floor as he watched her walk away.

Halfway down the hallway, she stopped and narrowed her eyes at the slave staring dumbly at her. " _Follow_ me, you idiot."

Maintaining a cautious distance as he navigated the labyrinthine estate, Torin followed her through a wide doorway into an expansive room, the floor mostly covered by a grid-like mat flanked by a line of benches on either side. In between the benches were racks of weapons, genuine blades mixed in with staves and dull training swords. She approached one of the racks and pulled her robe up, exposing tights-clad calves. Torin turned out hurriedly, unsure of how to react.

" _Why_ are you looking _that_ way?" She demanded.

He turned back around. Her robe hung on the rack next to her, from which she was pulling out a long blade similar in style to his own. Her feet were bare, though her legs were covered by tight black fabric. The only thing covering her torso was a broad black wrap of cloth that wound around her chest and back, then up over both shoulders. Torin swallowed, blushing. Was she not self-conscious?

 _Of course not. Why would she be?_

He was just a slave—you didn't worry about undressing in front of property.

"Has that little brain of yours figured out why I brought you here?" She tapped the side of her head while she heckled him.

He thought for a moment.

"You want to help me win," he replied. She stood silent for a moment, then doubled over in laughter.

"Help you _win?"_ She gasped, clutching her bare stomach. "You're not going to _win."_

"As absurd a thought as that is, it would do me no good for you to _kill_ Sabinus and ruin my relationship with his master." She stood back up straight and caught her breath. "I would, however, prefer for you to not die so _early_ in the Kaggath that it's embarrassing for me." She pointed at the center of the mat. "So stand over there and try not to cut yourself."

He walked to the center of the room, anxiously fingering the blade's handle while Vathamma assumed a position a short distance from him. She placed one foot forward, and held her hands level with her exposed navel so that her sword pointed just over his head. Torin examined her, doing his best to mimic the pose.

She shook her head. "Abysmal. Do you have a muscular disorder?"

He looked at his feet, then his arms, then back to her. "I'm standing just like you are!"

She shifted forward on the flats of her feet, stopping just as their blades touched. He wouldn't have even seen her move if he had happened to blink at the wrong moment. Their swords clinked together, and Torin tightened his grip as he felt the pressure growing against his blade.

"If you're doing it as I am, then why do you fold so easily?" She pushed forward and he stumbled backwards, nearly struck in the forehead with the edge of his own blade. "You're a man, aren't you?" She chided him. "You should be able to overpower me easily!"

She advanced, striking his blade with her own. It vibrated in his hands, nearly shaking out of his grip with a tremor that traveled down his wrists and up his arms.

"You have training," he shot back. She thrust forward with both arms, stopping just short of his chest. He clumsily swept away the blade poised at his chest, and once again assumed a neutral stance.

"Training is _nothing"_ she shouted, raising her blade high and bringing it down on him in a wide arc. "Will is _everything!"_

Their blades met and he felt as if his wrists would break from the impact.

"I asked if you're a man, but are you even alive?" She pushed down with unnatural strength. Was this the Force, he wondered? Or was he just _that_ outmatched by raw ferocity? "Do you want to lie down and die, like your friends?"

Gritting his teeth, he removed his left hand from the hilt of his sword and placed it on the flat of the blade near the tip, then shoved Vathamma's sword away. She withdrew, a brief smile flashing across her face.

"He awakens!"

Her retreat didn't last. As soon as he had regained his composure she moved forward, swinging her blade in wide arcs with one hand. Between her skill, strength, and sheer momentum, it was like a wave crashing into him with each blow. His blade fell from his hands, and she bore down on him with the tip of her blade thrust forward at him. Without thinking he brought his hands up to block it, perhaps believing in some corner of his mind that that mysterious power would reveal itself once again.

The blade cut through his outstretched hand, burying itself an inch into his flesh.

"You think to rely on miracles?" He tried to pull his hand away, but Vathamma angled her blade upward, keeping it skewered in place. He yelled in pain, unable to move without risking tearing his flesh.

"The Force won't save you here, and it _certainly_ won't save you in the arena." She yanked the sword free, and he fell onto all fours, pain shooting up his arm as his wounded hand struck the ground.

"Get up!" She shouted—a difficult order made downright impossible when she activated the shock collar around his neck.

"Up!" She bellowed again, but it was all he could do to stay conscious while he writhed on the ground, clutching at his chest, his heart feeling as if it would give out at any moment.

"How do you expect to last one _minute_ in that circle if you can't withstand the tickle from that collar?" She walked up to his prone form and stared down at him. "Do you think Lord Sabinus will be as merciful as I when you beg for that thing you call a 'life'?"

Vision swimming, he watched as she held her sword overhead, poised feet from his chest. Straining his head to the side he looked for his own weapon and saw it lying next to him. His arm shot out, grasping for his sword at the same moment Vathamma brought hers down on his chest. He held the blade perpendicular to his body, catching her sword by the pommel when the tip was mere inches from his rapidly rising and falling chest.

Blood dripped from his hand at a steady pace, soaking his dark tunic. The Sith looked down, a momentary smile breaking her stony facade before she lifted up her sword and stepped back. She switched off the shock collar and Torin breathed a sigh of immense relief, letting the sword in his hand clatter to the ground as his arm gave out.

Vathamma turned around, snorting derisively as she walked away.

"Things would have been _so_ much easier if I'd just killed you on Uracco..."

Anger flared in Torin's chest and he climbed to his feet, picking up his sword as he stood. She kidnaps _him,_ tortures _him,_ and twists it all into somehow being his fault?

Gritting his teeth, he charged at the Sith with his sword held above his head. He slid to a stop and gulped, keeping his weapon held high as he cast his eyes downward. Pressed against his throat was the tip of the Sith's blade, the weapon tucked under her armpit, hilt held to her side by the opposing hand.

"You think blind rage is power?" Blood trickled down his neck as she twisted the blade lightly. "If that were the case, mad dogs would be Sith Lords." She withdrew the blade and turned to face him, wiping Torin's blood off her blade and onto his shirt sleeve. He stood quivering in place, feeling the shallow wound just below his adam's apple. She walked over to where she had set aside her robe and placed her weapon in the rack, then began dressing.

"Clean yourself up," she commanded him as she left the room. She stopped and shot a frustrated look at the blood dripping from his wounded hand. "And stop bleeding on my mat."

* * *

Upon reaching his room, Torin was greeted by a body lying face down on the floor in front of his bed. The body moved and he jumped, quickly realizing that it was Nomi, her knees and face pressed to the floor in prostration.

"I'm so sorry!" She exclaimed. He cast a nervous glance at the door and shut it behind him before turning back to the Togruta.

"What are you doing?" He asked in hush tones.

"You can beat me if you so wish, master!"

He knelt down and gripped her by the arms, then helped her to her feet.

"Why would I beat you?"

She examined his face in confusion.

"It's because of me that you were forced into a Kaggath."

He looked away and tilted his head from side to side, considering her words.

"Mmm... no, that was all me."

Her mouth moved as if to object, but she held her tongue—it wasn't in her to second guess her superiors.

Feeling a growing wetness on the side of her arm, her eyes fell to Torin's cloth-wrapped hand. Blood dripped from the wet fabric and rolled down her arm.

"Sorry!" He pulled his injured hand back and squeezed it with the other, pressing the cloth to his wound.

Naomi glanced around the room anxiously. "Please wait one moment, master!"

She left, and Torin sat down on the edge of the bed. The Togruta returned a short time later, carrying a small plastic box by the handle. She knelt down in front of him and snapped it open, revealing a wide assortment of first aid supplies.

"Please unwrap your hand." He undid the makeshift bandage, dabbling up the blood that pooled in his palm as he held it upright.

"This will sting a bit." She pulled out a syringe, injecting the clear fluid within into the base of his palm. His hand swelled and he winced, his face returning to normal as the pain in his hand disappeared. Not just pain—he couldn't feel much of anything.

 _An anaesthetic?_

She set aside the syringe and pulled out a needle and surgical thread. He winced again—he wouldn't feel it, but he never liked watching these things done.

"I can assume from this you are busy preparing for your upcoming duel?"

He wanted to laugh.

 _Preparing? I should be making funeral arrangements._

Those two blue eyes twinkled up at him and he just nodded in response. Nomi began threading the needle through his wound, pulling it closed like she was stitching up a pair of pants.

"Is your— _our_ master always this mean?" He gestured down at his hand.

"Not always..." She trailed off before shaking her head. "I should not talk about such things."

Well, it didn't really matter. He'd have to endure Vathamma's 'lessons' for two more days. After that, she would be rid of him.

Her stitching completed, she took a spool of gauze out of the container beside her and began wrapping it around his palm. That done, she patted his hand and gave it a light kiss.

Torin's heart skipped a beat, and their eyes momentarily met before Nomi blushed and turned away.

"I'm sorry! I wasn't thinking."

He smirked. "Do you kiss your other Master's boo-boos?" She smiled briefly, then her expression turned dark.

"I... used to do that when my sister was hurt." She busied herself packing the medical kit back up while she spoke. "She would get a scrape or a cut, and we couldn't afford med gel. So I would say my kisses were magic, and she would believe it." The remainder of the bandages and his bloodied cloth gathered in her hands, she stood to her feet.

"Does she work here too?" He asked, rising from the bed.

"No," she stated flatly, refusing to meet his gaze. He immediately regretted asking, and decided to leave the matter there. She walked towards the door and slid it open, then turned back to face him.

"You will win, right?"

"I—" Again he was met with those wondrous blue eyes that captured the sunlight streaming in from the window behind them. He swallowed, unable to bear the thought of adding to their sadness.

"Yeah," he replied, nodding. "I'll win."

She left, and he sat down on the bed and stared out the window.

 _Three days._


	6. From The Jaws Of Defeat

"You've gone from completely hopeless to merely inept."

Torin felt his spirits lifted by Vathamma's words. The removal of his shock collar hadn't hurt, either. Not that she'd done it out of the kindness of her heart—it would simply look odd for an apprentice to wear one to a duel.

 _Something's definitely wrong with me._

It was hardly praise, but it was a far cry from the abuse—both verbal and physical—that she had hurled at him over the past few days. She wore her usual black robe, though the red epaulets on her shoulders had been removed and in their place she wore a black headdress with silver lining. It hung down on either side of her her head, covering her hair and leaving only her face visible. A few new bits of jewelry had joined the usual pieces of gold clinging to the small tendrils hanging from her jawline. She wouldn't have looked out of place delivering a eulogy at someone's graveside—quite appropriate, really.

 _Not that she's going to shed any tears for me._

"You'll still lose, of course."

His heart dropped, and Nomi looked worriedly between Master and Apprentice. He got the distinct impression that she wanted to say _something_ in encouragement, but to do so would contradict her Master—and Vathamma had already decided exactly how this duel would end.

Looking around the hall, Torin took in the mass of people assembled in the temple entryway. The antechamber was enormous, a stone-hewn corridor that led from the entrance to the temple proper. Robed statues stood against the walls with their stone hands clasped meditatively, though the heads seemed to have been violently removed. He recognized some of the designs adorning the walls and recalled the time he'd visited a Jedi temple with his father as a young boy—though he couldn't remember seeing any actual Jedi.

It occurred to him that this must have _been_ a Jedi temple at some point. The Empire hadn't been here long enough for the Sith to get to work erecting stone megastructures. Instead they'd adapted the existing religious infrastructure to their purposes, perverting hallowed ground into something more aligned with their dark faith.

That was what the Sith were, after all—twisted, fallen Jedi. Beaten and exiled across known space, left to wallow in darkness and resentment, growing all wrong in a twisted cocoon until they burst forth on the galaxy like a disease. It'd been millennia since they'd split off from the Jedi order, but their hated origins were still unmistakably embedded in every bit of their culture.

 _Except for this 'Kaggath'._

He'd never heard of Jedi dueling each other to the death, and he couldn't imagine them ever doing so. Torin had certainly never expected to find _himself_ drawn into one. The crowds of Sith around him huddled in small groups, mingling and whispering to each other while they shot him the occasional sidelong glance. This was his _life_ on the line, but for them it was a mildly amusing weekday diversion. He could tell from the smirks on their faces that like Vathamma, they'd already long since determined the inevitable outcome of the fight.

"Oh, don't look so glum," the Sith said. "You nearly perished in some wretched prison camp. Instead, you can die with honor."

He feigned a smile. "I feel so lucky."

The sound of a gong being struck echoed in the chamber hall, and the crowd began to filter into the doorways lining the sides. Vathamma gripped his shoulders, pointing him to the arena doorway and the two priestly attendants standing on either side of the sealed door.

"You'll do fine," she whispered in his ear, then gave him a shove to get him moving. "Or, you won't."

She followed the crowds making their way to the arena's viewing area, waving a dismissive hand at Torin as he dragged his leaden feet forward. Nomi likewise gave him a small wave before tearing her eyes away and chasing after her master.

Stepping in front of the doorway, he gave a nervous nod to the two attendants flanking the door while he tapped his foot on the cobblestone and drummed his fingers against the sides of his leg. The hooded men kept their faces turned forward, giving little indication that they even recognized his presence.

 _This is who I get to spend the last few minutes of my life with._

After a few moments the door opened, and he stepped through the threshold.

* * *

Torin emerged into a circular room surrounded by tiered stone seating high above the floor. The seats were filled with a multicolored array of Sith and Human faces, though their attention wasn't directed at him. They were watching a shadowed figure enter through the doorway opposite his own. The man stepped out of the gloom and entered the arena, bathed in an eerie red light shining from the crystal sconces lining the walls and ceiling. Lord Sabinus had on the same outfit Torin had first seen him in—a ridiculous assembly of gold and black that would have been more at home in a fancy ball than the arena.

Lord Andar stood in the center of the room, hands clasped behind his back. He wore a red and purple ceremonial robe that brushed the floor as he turned from one participant to the other.

"Welcome, both of you." He tilted his head up to look at the crowd encircling the chamber. "And welcome, all. Under normal circumstances, the ancient rite of the Kaggath would be conducted across months and star systems, pitting the power bases of both contestants against one another."

"But seeing as our young defender _has_ no power base—" A few laughs sounded in the crowd as he nodded at Torin. "—Lord Sabinus has seen fit to begin this dispute where it would normally _end."_

Over the noise of the crowd he heard footsteps approaching behind him. An attendant handed him a sword with his head bowed, placing the weapon in Torin's outstretched hands. In his mind he muttered a small thanks that it was similar in style to the one he'd grown used to in his sessions with his Master—though this blade looked far newer than that antique.

Running two fingers over the flat of the vibrosword, he searched the smooth surface of the metal for any imperfections. It hummed softly as he touched it, revealing no sign of tampering.

For days he'd been watching, waiting for some poisoned food stuff to slip into his meals or for a heavily-armed assailant to storm Vathamma's manor—after all, that's how his first night on Balmorra had ended. But the three days before the Kaggath had come and gone uneventfully, and here he stood across from his opponent, ready for a fair fight.

 _Well, as fair as a fight with a Sith Lord can be._

One look at the confident man standing across the arena told Torin why the expected sabotage had never come. It wasn't because of some sense of honor or the sacred nature of the duel. Torin simply didn't merit the effort.

"I'll take this moment to remind the participants of the rules," Andar's voice echoed off of the vaulted ceiling. "There will be no active use of the Force. The contest will end when _one_ of the participants can no longer continue. Do you understand?"

Turning to each man in turn, they nodded in acknowledgement. Torin whispered a silent prayer at the prohibition. Assuming he even _had_ tapped into the Force before, he had no idea how to do so deliberately—and he could be fairly certain that Lord Sabinus' powers were nowhere near as fickle.

"Let the duel begin!" Lord Andar boomed, then made his way to a lift situated against the wall of the arena. Torin and Sabinus approached the center, stepping into the small radius of natural light that shone down from a hole in the temple's ceiling.

"I'll make you this offer _once_ , boy." The Sith twirled the blade in his hand playfully. "Bow to me in front of everyone—" He swept a hand at the audience. "—apologize sincerely, and I will make your death quick." He stopped the blade spinning and pointed it at Torin. "Otherwise, I will make it _slow."_

 _What a shitty deal._

"I've got a counter-offer," Torin retorted, hands and feet quaking as his voice shook. "You apologize to Nomi, and I'll let you live."

"...Who?" Sabinus laughed, watching the young man shake uneasily with their blades feet from one another.

"On with it!" Came a shout from the crowd, followed by a chorus of agreement.

Both men moved into the ray of light, and Sabinus' assault began as soon as their swords touched. He pushed Torin backward, forcing him onto the defensive as soon as the fight had begun. It was all the apprentice could do to block the Sith's blows, hands twisting and turning to meet Sabinus' brutal blows with his weapon. The Sith advanced aggressively, driving his opponent backward and giving him no time to recover between attacks. Torin's hands moved on their own as soon as his eyes identified the incoming strikes, his muscles apparently having learned a thing or two from Vathamma's harsh training. At the very least, his bouts with her had gotten him used to the feeling of being under constant assault. His feet moved far less steadily—he stumbled with each blow, moving uneasily from stance to stance while Sabinus himself seemed to glide across the stone floor.

Resolving to try and assume the offensive, Torin thrust his foot back to brace himself as Sabinus brought his weapon down from overhead. Their blades met, and the two men gritted their teeth as they leaned their respective weights into each other.

"You lasted longer than I thought you would," Sabinus spat. "But this fight ended before it began." He slid his sword to the side, scraping it against Torin's. Sparks flew into his eyes and he shut them reflexively, turning his head away. Immediately Sabinus released one hand from the hilt of his weapon and struck Torin in the windpipe, making him stagger backwards as he clutched at his throat. The Sith followed the disorienting strike up with a kick to the bottom of the ribcage, sending Torin sprawling to the floor with a muted grunt.

Attempting to bring his sword back up to block whatever came next, he was stopped when the man above him brought his heavy boot down on the side of blade, cracking it in half. Keeping his shoe on the blade, he spun in place and used his other foot to kick the hilt from Torin's hand. It flew across the arena, clattering against the far wall. He circled around the vulnerable apprentice, stopping just behind his head to stare down at Torin's upturned face.

In the stands, surrounded by fellow Sith sat Vathamma. She shook her head and frowned, forehead leaned against the tips of her fingers as she watched the unfolding spectacle.

The blade hung above his face like the blade of a guillotine. Sabinus looked around at the cheering crowds, drawing amusement from their bloodlust.

"It's a shame you're just a penniless apprentice," he sighed. "The Kaggath is more enjoyable with something on the line besides your life." He looked down at Torin.

"And frankly, that isn't worth much." His eyes shot up and he wrinkled his brow thoughtfully. "What about that alien trash that started all this? 'Nomi', you said her name was?"

Toronto's eyes went wide and his heart pounded back to life.

"I doubt your Master would miss one slave. I could have such _fun_ with her—"

Hand shooting to the side, Torin felt on the floor for the broken blade. His fingers gripped cold steel and he grabbed it, ignoring the pain of the edge cutting into his palm as he brought the shard bearing down on the side of Sabinus' knee.

The Sith screamed, crumpling onto his wounded knee and propping himself up with his sword beside Torin's head. Torin rolled away and pushed himself to his feet, then ran at Sabinus, bowling him over onto his back. Shattered blade still in hand, he brought it down on Sabinus, driving it deep into his opponent's chest. Leaving the makeshift dagger embedded in his opponent, Torin pried Sabinus' sword from his grip and brought the weapon overhead, holding it pointed down at Sabinus.

A rapturous silence had overtaken the arena. No one had expected this. Not the onlookers, not Torin, and not Lord Sabinus. His chest heaving, the red faded from Torin's vision and he looked up at the Sith assembled in the stands. They whispered to each other, though their eyes remained fixed on him. Gradually their whispers turned to shouts.

"Finish him!" They yelled, gesturing with thumbs pointed downward. "Do it!"

Less than a minute ago they'd been howling for Sabinus to do the same to Torin—were the whims of the mob that mercurial?

 _No, they still want the same thing._

They didn't care who killed who, as long as blood flowed on the floor of the arena.

Below Torin, Sabinus coughed wetly, blood oozing from his mouth and his chest heaving. Hands shaking, Torin's arms grew weak. He let them fall to his side, the sword in his hand feeling heavier than ever as it struck the stone floor. He watched Sabinus' eyes roll around in a panic as he struggled to draw air into his punctured lung. Pushing himself to his feet with the aid of the sword, he took one last dazed look at the fallen Sith before turning around and walking away, tip of his weapon dragging against the floor as he walked. Disappointed groans came from the crowd, but he could hardly hear them. A loud ringing filled his ears, and all he could see was the arena exit ahead of him.

Then, a flutter in his chest—a warning. Without turning around he whipped the sword under his armpit, thrusting it backward at the unseen threat. The blade met resistance and he craned his head back to see what it had struck.

Sabinus stood behind him, the blade that Torin had buried in his chest now held in his outstretched hand. _Sabinus'_ blade, now held by Torin, jutted out of Sabinus' throat. Their eyes met, both duelists' faces filled with shock and disbelief. Sabinus' expression faded first, the life draining from his body as he finally succumbed to his wounds and slipped from the extended blade. Body still turned away from him, Torin stared, bewildered, at the man whose life he'd just taken. He'd stood over the mortally wounded Sith, _nearly_ killed him...

 _I killed him._

There were no cheers. The crowd simply observed Sabinus' motionless body for a few moments before standing to their feet and making their way to the exits in reverent silence. Torin stood there until the benches were nearly empty, then dropped the sword and made his own departure.

He'd won, but he felt no triumph.

* * *

Immediately upon entering the temple antechamber, throngs of Sith fell upon Torin, patting him on the back and marveling over what a fight it had been. Other groups stood off to the side, shooting him pointed glares. He could very easily discern which Sith Lords' fortunes had been buoyed, or alternately torpedoed, by Lord Sabinus' death and the changes in the political landscape such an event would bring. The reality of his victory setting in, it began to dawn on him that he'd been snatched from the jaws of death only to find himself dangling over a deeper precipice still.

Unsure of where to go, he made his way towards the only two people he recognized.

"You won," Vathamma stated matter-of-factly. He couldn't tell from her voice if she was angry, disappointed, or simply disinterested—and her stoic expression didn't give any clues, either.

"I won," he echoed, still finding the idea difficult to wrap his head around.

"You looked like you were ready to roll over and die." She snorted and looked him over. "What changed?"

His eye flickered to the Togruta next to her and he shrugged.

"Guess I found a reason to fight."

"I heard what happened," Nomi gushed, unable to hold back her nervous energy any longer. "You were so brave."

 _Brave?_

Vathamma shot her slave an annoyed look, and the Togruta went silent again. He wondered if she would be so fawning if she had been in the arena to see him stabbing a man in a bloody frenzy. It wasn't brave, or glorious—it was the spurt of warm blood and the crack of bones.

With the collar absent from his neck and the hall filled with the watchful eyes of other Sith, Torin gathered the courage to speak freely with his master.

"You said Sabinus was the apprentice of a friend of yours?"

She raised an eyebrow. "A _frien_ —?" Stopping halfway through the word, she sighed and rolled her eyes. "A _business associate."_

 _Right... Sith didn't have friends._

"Are you... upset?" He asked, examining her expression for a clue as to what punishment he could expect from her upon returning to her home.

"We will talk about this later," she declared, turning to face the unknown man approaching the small group. A human with grey hair and liver spots, he wore a smart formal suit and walked with a pronounced hunch in his back. He didn't _look_ to be Sith, but appearances could be deceiving.

 _Sometimes intentionally so._

"Lady Vathamma." He bowed slowly at the waist, then turned to her apprentice. "And Master..."

"Torin is fine," he exclaimed, taking a moment to realize the title was directed at _him._ He felt a familiar sensation gripping his throat, and his eyes darted down to see Vathamma's hand clenched at her side, fingers quaking.

"Master Val," he sputtered, coughing as the man eyed him uneasily.

"Lord Andar humbly requests your presence at his office."

Vathamma stared down the servant. "Did he say why?"

"Such things are not for me to know," came the curt response. The old man shuffled away, leaving the confused apprentice and his concerned master to their uneasy silence.

* * *

"Come in, come in!" The orange-skinned Sith at the other end of the office stood from behind his desk, beckoning Torin forth. The apprentice entered, eyeing his surroundings warily. One of his Master's attendants had driven him to the office, a suite contained within a skyscraper at the center of Balmorra's capital, Sobrik. He'd had to endure the depressing surroundings of the city when he had first arrived on Balmorra, and the interiors were hardly more pleasant. The drab gray sameness of it all seemed designed to oppress the human spirit—though he had to admit that Lord Andar displayed better taste in decor than the other rooms he'd passed on his way in. It was distinctly _Imperial,_ and not _Sith,_ for one thing—he'd come to appreciate the subtle difference in culture trappings. The walls were a muted beige, and a broad window spanned the wall behind the desk. From this high floor he had a view of much of the city center, the spaceport and the throngs of hover cars headed to it visible outside.

"Please, have a seat." He gestured to one of the cushioned chairs in front of the desk. Torin sat down, smoothing out the ruffles in his tunic. "Care for a drink?"

"Uh... sure."

The Sith walked over to a bar situated against the sidewall and poured a dark brown liquid from a crystal decanter into two small glasses. Walking back to the desk and sitting down opposite Torin, he scooted one of the glasses towards the human. Torin eyed the liquid suspiciously, waiting for his host to down his own drink before he took a sip of his own. His paranoia may have been warranted, but it was pointless—if the Sith wanted to kill him, he wouldn't do it with a poisoned drink.

The brown liquid slipped down his throat, and immediately his insides burned. Torin coughed and sputtered, his body revolting against the foul drink.

 _Gods, it's awful!_

"Not a fan?" The Sith asked, smirking.

Torin put the glass down on the desk and scooted it away. "That's terrible," he choked out. Andar laughed and set his own glass down.

"Do you know how the Sith test for purity of blood?"

Torin shook his head, still grimacing from the aftertaste of the drink.

"Over the centuries they've developed a battery of genetic tests. DNA, mitochondrial markers, epigenetic pseudo factors..." Elbows propped up on the arms of his chair, he waved his hands in the air for effect as he rattled off more terms. "As you can imagine, it costs a fortune to determine if someone is truly a Pureblood Sith."

He leaned forward in his chair and looked Torin in the eyes. "I do it with a fifty credit bottle of Ziost Brandy. No one but Sith can stomach the stuff."

"You couldn't have just taken a look at me?" Torin asked, running a hand over his tendril-less jaw and fair skin.

Andar lifted his hands up. "Of course, but I wanted to make a point."

"That the Sith alcohol industry desperately needs a shakeup?" He cracked the joke without thinking, growing more comfortable in the inviting surroundings of the suite.

"Not exactly... but you're closer to the truth than you might think," he smirked. "You went through the academy on Korriban, yes?"

He twiddled his thumbs together uneasily. "Not exactly..."

"Then your knowledge of the Sith is likely limited to what bits of our culture have seeped into that of the Empire has a whole," he continued, brushing off the human's vague response. "Millennia of accumulated shibboleths and outdated practices that weigh us down, ossify us..."

"...like your master."

Torin's head shot back up at the mention of Vathamma.

"All these outdated rituals and rites, remains of a religion that should have seen a reformation centuries ago—the Kaggath being a perfect example."

"What were you saying about my Master?" Torin interrupted. The Sith sat silent for a moment before recalling that point in the conversation.

"Ah, Vathamma. One of the _Old Guard._ That's why she's afraid of you, after all."

Torin stared at the Sith, bewildered, and pointed at his own chest.

"Oh yes, afraid of _you._ Here she is, a Sith Pureblood, an established figure in the Sith hierarchy who carved out a niche for herself through sheer cunning and ruthlessness. She's an unparalleled swordsman, but her mastery of the Force is, well... _lacking."_

The Sith stood from his chair, circling around the desk to lean on the edge a few feet from where Torin was seated.

"Then you come along, a neophyte Sith, whose innate talent completely eclipses her own." He shook his head. "It's no wonder she treats you so poorly."

Staring out the window, Torin tried to make Andar's words mesh with the events of the past few days. Was he right? Was _she_ intimidated by _him?_

"Food for thought, my boy." Snapping back to reality, Torin watched as Andar returned to his chair. "I won't keep you any longer—I know how your Master can be."

Torin gave him a meak smile, then thanked him for the drink—with a hint of dry sarcasm—and left. Lord Andar swiveled in his chair to the computer terminal at his desk, fingers working at the keyboard for a few moments before he was connected to the desired party through the comm link. He exhaled slowly, closing his eyes and running a hand over his face before putting on a saddened expression.

"Darth Dominus," he started, melancholy eyes directed at the masked figure displayed through the hologram above his desk. "I have grave news concerning your apprentice..."


	7. Talk Is Cheap

Sosyan turned to her Sith host, keeping her eyes on the duel that was quickly coming to a close in the arena below.

"Are the fights always this one-sided?"

The human Sith leaned to whisper in his guest's ear. "Not typically. This one's a bit of an anomaly." A hushed silence had fallen over the crowd as Lord Sabinus circled the young apprentice he'd just sent sprawling to the ground.

Sosyan looked at the other faces in the crowd—all Sith Purebloods or humans, herself being the lone standout. She was Falleen, a woman with green skin that stood out starkly next to the other onlookers. She'd come to Balmorra on business, and her host had sought to woo her—in a strictly professional sense—with a show of Sith bravado. Unfortunately, she found the spectacle quite lacking. This was akin to watching an animal being led to slaughter.

A pained cry came from the arena, and she cocked her head back to see what had become of Sabinus' unskilled opponent. Instead, she saw the young man in the gray tunic kneeling over Sabinus, driving the broken blade of a sword into the man's chest. He picked up Sabinus' intact weapon and held it aloft for a moment, preparing to end the duel in a most unexpected way.

 _Well, this is interesting..._

Sabinus' opponent let the sword drop, standing to his feet and walking away from the wounded Sith, his auburn hair a mess and eyes fixed ahead in a thousand-yard stare.

 _Even more interesting!_

Behind him, Sabinus reached up towards his chest with a shaking hand and clenched the blade buried in it, then yanked it free. He rose to his feet, half-walking and half-falling at his enemy, ready to strike. His opponent's blade whipped backward without the man even turning around. Sabinus croaked weakly as he stood there impaled on the blade by his throat.

Sosyan grabbed the man next to her by the arm, shaking him as she watched Sabinus collapse to the ground.

"Who is that boy?" She asked hurriedly. "The young man who won."

"I'm... not sure," the Sith replied, stroking his chin. "He's Lady Vathamma's apprentice, but he's so new..." The audience rose to their feet and began to exit the stands. Sosyan followed, casting one furtive glance back at the human below before following the crowd.

'Lady Vathamma's' apprentice, her host had said—the man with whom she had spent the last few days hammering out the details of a trade agreement that would benefit both him and her syndicate.

"Your lordship," she said, stopping the Sith in the hallway outside the arena. "I'm afraid our agreement is no longer tenable."

"What do you mean?" He started.

"Circumstances have changed," she replied with a shrug.

"What could _possibly_ have changed?" The human demanded, gesticulating wildly as the crowds squeezed by the two in the corridor.

"Circumstances," she repeated, leaving the stunned Lord in the hall to gather his thoughts as she left the arena and made her way to the cruiser waiting to take her to the starport. The Sith had been a dull man, with boring tastes and an exhaustingly intense demeanor.

 _And I've found something so much more interesting._

* * *

"Thanks for doing this. Again, I mean."

Torin watched Nomi wrap a bandage around his hand, the scar on his other one still faintly visible despite the med gel slathered on it repeatedly.

"It is my pleasure, master."

He grimaced at the title. Torin had resolved never to be a slave again, but he didn't want to be anyone's master, either.

"You can call me Torin, you know."

"If that is your desire, Master Torin."

"I meant just—" She stopped wrapping the gauze around his hand to look up at him, and he shook his head. "Nevermind."

It was vanity on his part, anyway. _He_ was the one made uneasy by it, not her—and she truly _did_ seem happy to help him. Why risk getting her in trouble with Vathamma? So he could forget for a few brief moments that he was marooned in an Empire where everyone was either master or slave?

Nomi continued wrapping his wound, her dainty red fingers moving deftly over his larger hand. The fleshy horns jutting out of her head wagged back and forth in front of him as her head bobbed from side to side, the Togruta humming happily as she finished her work.

 _I should get stabbed more often._

These brief interludes in his room with Nomi were the only time in the past week where he hadn't been worried someone was going to stab him in the back—be it literally or figuratively. The only other person on the planet he could say he really _knew_ was his own master, and she certainly wasn't desirable company—her particular brand of intimate contact was tailor made to disorient and unsettle, not comfort.

Taping the bandage down, Nomi patted his palm and began packing up the medical kit.

 _Maybe I should have asked for another kiss?_

As he watched her prepare to leave, he found himself wishing she wouldn't. He could ask her to stay—hell, he could _order_ her to.

She rose from her kneeling position on the floor, her face turning to meet Torin's as she stood.

"If there will be nothing else, I—" She froze as Torin placed his hands on the sides of her arms, holding them lightly. He was leaning forward, his face inches from hers.

"Nomi..." he muttered, swallowing nervously. She remained silent, her eyes of oceanic blue meeting his own with unwavering focus. Moving his head further forward still, he pressed his lips softly to hers, holding her just firmly enough that she would know he didn't want her to go—not yet.

He pulled back and let his hands drop from her arms, searching her eyes for a reaction—a sign of acceptance or rejection. She let the box slip from her hand and fall to the floor, then took a step back and began removing the drab shirt clinging tightly to her torso. Torin's heart pounded in his chest as she exposed her navel, then the faint impression of her ribs visible beneath her smooth crimson skin, finally tugging the shirt off over her head as her head tentacles fell free of the neckline.

A simple white wrap covered her breasts, and as he rose to his feet he could see her cleavage poking out from the top of the fabric. Breathing hard, he stepped toward the Togruta and took her in his arms again, putting one hand behind her neck and bringing their lips together.

"You may do with me as you please, Master."

Nomi's whisper stopped Torin cold. His hands slid off of her half-nude form and he stepped back, an ashamed look spread across his face.

"I'm gonna go," he muttered, exiting the room without a single glance back at her.

* * *

"No more shock collar. I've had enough of that."

Vathamma nodded, seated on the meditation platform in her chambers with legs crossed.

"And I want meals. _Regular_ meals. Not just the scraps of food Nomi manages to slip me when you're not running her ragged."

"Anything else?" She asked.

Torin thought for a moment, rubbing his arm as he stared at the low ceiling.

"I want you to treat her—Nomi—better." He stood silently, and after a moment his master spoke.

"Is that all?"

He nodded, and waited. The Sith extended a robed hand, her fingers snapping into position as if they were wrapped around his airway. Immediately his windpipe closed and he clawed at his neck. In his mind he knew it would do no good, but his body demanded that he do something, _anything,_ to get oxygen.

"Where is this newfound courage coming from?" She rose from the dais and walked towards him. "You killed a Sith Lord and now you think yourself invincible—is that it?"

He looked at her with pleading, bloodshot eyes, unable to muster a response.

"Lord Sabinus died because he underestimated you. You, a creature so base that I thought underestimation impossible." Standing a few steps away, she kept her hand extended. "And here you are, making the similar mistake of _overestimating_ your abilities..." Her grip tightened. "...And the security of your position." She released her hold and he drew air in, managing to stay standing as he wobbled back and forth uneasily.

"What about _your_ position?" He shot back between labored breaths. "You said Sabinus' master was important—a governor." He readied himself for another bout of Force choking, but Vathamma just snorted in amusement.

"I prepare for _every_ possible eventuality," she asserted, eyeing her apprentice. "No matter how _absurd_ they may seem at the time." She circled around him, and he felt her palms fall flat against his back, making him shoot straight up. He'd learned to handle her anger, but the Sith still knew exactly which buttons to press to keep him on edge—she'd been doing this far longer than he had.

"And I have _you,"_ she purred, running her hands lower as her arms wrapped around him in a nauseating embrace. "So when the assassins' daggers come unsheathed..." She tapped a finger over his heart. "I'll know just where to point them." She released him and left her meditation chambers, motioning for Torin to follow.

"But it's not just assassins, is it? You said you were in business with—"

" _Every_ eventuality," she shot back, making her way to the manor's entrance as her apprentice jogged after her. "You may have put my dealings with Darth Dominus in jeopardy..."

 _Darth 'Dominus'? A little on the nose..._

"But I would not have made it to where I am if I were so stupid as to rely on one source of income." The pair exited the manor, making their way to a cruiser parked outside. "I have already entered negotiations with a Falleen business syndicate," she declared proudly, ducking into the cruiser as a guard opened the door for her.

"And you're going to help." She beckoned him into the cruiser with the wag of a finger. "It will put you on the _long, long_ path of making up for the difficulties you've caused me."

The flagrant lack of empathy she displayed didn't surprise him at all—he was more curious about how _he_ could possibly be of use.

"Me?" He asked, sliding into the seat across from her in the hovercar.

"The Falleen we're meeting with is something of a... cultural connoisseur. She _insisted_ that I bring along my apprentice." Her sneer disappeared and she examined her fingernails while she crossed her legs underneath her robe. "I assume she discovered the stature of the Lord she was negotiating with and wanted to see what sort of Sith I had shaped. Unfortunately, she'll get, well..." She trailed off and gestured at the young man across from her.

"Falleen... can't they control minds?"

"It's not _mind control_ , it's _pheromones_ —and I'm not some simpleton that can be manipulated by an alien species' airborne excretions."

"What if they use their powers on me?"

She shot him a tired look. "To make you do _what,_ exactly?"

He opened his mouth to speak, but shut it again—he didn't exactly have a good answer for that.

"Just do as I do, look fierce, and don't say anything _stupid_ —in fact, don't say anything at all."

 _Look fierce?_

Torin crossed his arms, shoving his hands under his armpits and jutting his chin out proudly. Vathamma rolled her eyes and shook her head, then rapped her knuckles on the partition behind her.

"Driver—starport, now."

* * *

The trip had taken a good portion of the day, and night had begun to fall on Sobrik as Vathamma's shuttle left the starport to travel to the Falleen's yacht, which sat in orbit above Balmorra.

 _Yacht_ —that's what Vathamma had called it, but Torin had still expected to find himself on some stodgy industrial vessel full of rusted metal and derelict machinery. As they came within sight of the vessel, he realized that Yacht was indeed the proper nomenclature. Even from the exterior he could see that this was a luxury vessel, the sort of ship one wouldn't mind being stuck on while dashing about the galaxy on business. It was hundreds of feet long, with viewing windows spanning both sides of the vessel from top to bottom. Shutters hung above the windows, retracted, ready to be rolled down should they find themselves facing some solar body. A hexagonal dome sat atop the ship near the rear, either the bridge or executive suite—possibly both.

"For the love of the Emperor, _sit down."_

He tore himself away from the window behind the captain's chair where his master was seated, taking his position in the co-pilot's chair. Vathamma contacted the vessel through the communications channel and received permission to dock, then piloted the small shuttle into the docking bay opening up in the side of the much larger luxury cruiser. The bay was enormous—it must have spanned the entire length of the vessel, though it was almost entirely empty save a few other shuttles of alien-looking design.

Master and apprentice exited the shuttle and looked around for any sign of life, their heads turning as they heard the whirr of an automatic door opening. Two colorful figures emerged from an elevator fifty feet away, making their way swiftly to greet the Sith. Both Falleen women wore orange tops with high collars and dresses with intricate designs of woven gold, their green midriffs and arms left exposed. They had pronounced ridges above their eyes, but no eyebrows. No hair at all, in fact—except for the long black ponytails sticking out of the backs of their heads that hung nearly to their waists.

"Lady Vathaama," the Falleen on the right greeted her, both aliens bowing deeply with their palms pressed together in front of them. Vathaama glanced back and forth between the two identical Fallen, then bowed to the one who had spoken. Torin hurriedly imitated her, his head nearly passing his waist.

"Representative Sosyan. A pleasure," the Sith beamed, folding her hands inside the sleeves of her robe.

"If you will follow me, please." The woman gestured politely to the elevator, and the pair followed the two. Torin took a position behind the silent Falleen, and the lift began its slow ascent to the passenger deck. As he watched the wall lights passing in front of them, his eyes wandered with increasing frequency to the green-skinned woman. In the sterile light of the hangar she'd looked alien, but now she seemed... _exotic._

His eyes ran from the nape of the woman's neck, down her curving exposed back, to the crack of her ass just barely visible past a dip in her dress. He swallowed and his eyes shot back up guiltily, only to meet the smiling countenance of the body's owner. She winked at him, then turned back around. His heartbeat was through the roof, and he became worried that everyone else in the elevator could hear it—it had already long since drowned out the noise of the lift in his own ears.

"Ah!" The Falleen exclaimed, falling backwards. Torin's arms shot out and he caught her, stepping forward to stop the woman from falling further. The back of her head hit his shoulder and he steadied her, propping her up by her arms.

"I'm sorry, the lift shook." Her face right next to his, she stared up at him with jade eyes even more vivid than her skin—he couldn't look away.

"It's... nothing," he muttered, helping her back to her feet. Her ass pressed against his crotch and his vision just about went white in rapturous ecstasy—it was all he could do to stay standing.

"The lift didn't _shake,"_ Vathamma retorted, looking at the two in confusion.

The other Falleen, Sosyan, turned to face Vathamma. "The lift definitely shook. You probably did not feel it, being a Sith Lord of such great power."

"I—" Vathamma cut herself short. "Yes, that must be it," she stated dryly.

After what seemed like an eternity to the overwhelmed Torin, the lift reached its destination. All four stepped out into a hallway that stretched far in either direction, doorways lining the walls. A large set of double-doors sat open directly in front of the elevator, and he could see the luxurious office space contained within.

"Come, apprentice," Vathamma commanded Torin, who leaned against a wall next to the elevator, trying to catch his breath.

"Actually—" Sosyan held her hand up. "I would prefer to conduct this business in private. My associate will see to him."

The Sith shrugged. "Very well."

The Falleen representative entered the office, followed by Vathaama. His master shut the doors behind her, but not before holding up her clenched hand in a crude pantomime of what she would do to his airway if he caused her any trouble in her absence.

As soon as the two left, Torin felt a hand on his side. "Follow me, please." The Falleen pointed to the elevator he had just left, ushering him back into the cramped space. Reluctantly he stepped inside, taking a position against the wall as the woman pushed a button for another floor. The doors closed and she walked towards him, standing right beside him in a space that seemed far smaller than it had only a moment ago.

 _Am I claustrophobic?_

It definitely seemed that way. He tugged at his neckline, loosening the collar of his tunic. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead and he dabbed at them with his sleeve, casting furtive glances at the alien who stared up at him with a smile.

"Are you alright?" She asked. Her voice was smooth, like silk. Immediately he felt a wave of relaxation wash over him, his heart slowing and hot skin cooling.

"Yeah," he replied with a smile and nod. "Just nervous, I guess. This is a really nice ship."

She wound her arm under Torin's and clasped him to her side. "It gets even nicer."

The elevator doors opened, and she guided him out into the room ahead of them. The elevator sat in the center of the circular space, a luxury suite nicer than any he'd ever seen—more like a full-on _home_ then a hotel room. Windows wrapped around the entire space, and he could see out of the ship from all sides—this must have been the room he'd thought was the bridge when they'd approached the yacht in the shuttle. Low walls divided the area up into a dining area, sleeping quarters, and bar—as they circled around, he spotted a hot tub, already full of water and bubbling.

They stopped at a seating area set into the floor with three couches in front of a circular table. Facing the seats was a window from which he could see Balmorra's horizon, the planet's sun setting below the horizon.

"Wow..." Torin marveled at the sight as the woman set him down on the couch, then sat beside him. "That's quite a view."

The Falleen wrapped her arm around his back and brought her hand to his neck. Small claws ran up and down his flesh, a sensation which _should_ have had his skin crawling, but for some reason felt quite soothing—like she was scratching an itch he didn't know he'd had.

"Yes, it is." Her other hand went to his chest, resting just over his sternum, and he tried desperately to slow his rapid breathing. Why was she getting so close to him? And _why_ couldn't he calm down?

He turned to face her, freezing in place when he realized how close their faces were. Those jade eyes stared back at him like broken gems, searching his soul.

"Tell me about yourself."

"There's not a lot to tell... my name's Torin, and up until a week ago I was a farmer. I got drafted by the Republic, then Vathaama—you met her—" The words poured from his mouth faster than he could process them, like she'd flipped off some safeguard switch deep in his mind. The Falleen held a finger to his lips, silencing him.

"Not that boring stuff. Tell me something _interesting."_ The hand on his chest moved downward, rubbing his abdomen from side to side. He shivered, but not out of fear—out of excitement. This woman... for reasons he couldn't quite put his finger on, he trusted her. They'd only met a short time ago, but already they shared a deep connection, a tether between them that spanned centuries and light years. He'd never felt anything like it before—was this love at first sight?

He wracked his brain, trying to think of _something_ she would want to hear.

"I think I have Force powers," he exclaimed.

She frowned and pulled back. "Isn't that normal? You're Sith."

He felt he'd said something he wasn't supposed to, but the sensation of the Falleen's hands leaving his body made his stomach twist up in knots.

"I'm not Sith!" He stammered. "I'd never even _thought_ about the Force until a week ago!"

The woman's hand slid up his neck, winding his hair around her fingers. "Tell me the whole story," she said with a grin.

* * *

"Then we're agreed on import taxes. As long as the Black Suns can provide transit security—"

Vathaama waved her hand. "Yes, yes. That's fine."

The Falleen looked at the holographic display above the desk in front of her, examining the actuarial tables and financial calculations she'd completed during her session with the Sith.

"I believe we have a deal, Lady Vathaama. You will act as our sponsor in the sale of Thermoplast Flux to the Imperial Navy."

The Sith uncrossed her legs and leaned forward in her chair, massaging her forehead with her fingers. "Ah... finally."

"As soon as Representative Sosyan approves the contract—"

Vathaama's head shot back up. "What do you mean?"

The Falleen gestured at the holographic display. "Everything is in order, but we'll still need her approval—"

"What do you mean _her?"_ The Sith rose rapidly, shoving her chair backwards. "You said _you_ were the Representative!"

The green woman shrunk back in her chair, holding her hands forward. "I _never_ said I was Representative Sosyan."

Seething, Vathaama marched around the desk and loomed over the woman. "Explain."

* * *

 _"Fascinating."_ The Falleen woman stared out the window as Torin concluded his story, having left no detail out of his otherwise hurried recounting. "You poor, poor man," she cooed, stroking his torso with her right hand as she brushed aside his hair with her left. "Don't worry, you're safe now."

He was away from the Sith, away from Balmorra, and away from Vathaama—even if the Sith _did_ lurk elsewhere on the ship, he felt secure in the Falleen's comforting embrace. The woman curled around him pushed herself up on the sofa so that her face was level with his. He turned to face her but she held his head still, turning him back towards the windows. Her lips ran up and down his cheek, planting soft kisses along the side of his face.

"I can take you away with me... how would you like that?"

His heart fluttered as her hand moved down his stomach, two of her fingers slipping past his waistband.

"I don't even know your name," he stammered.

"Sosyan," she whispered, her breath hot on his ear.

He thought for a moment. "Wasn't the other woman named Sosyan?"

"No, that was me. Remember?"

He swallowed, eyes fixed on Balmorra as his mind and vision reeled. She opened her mouth and pressed her tongue to his neck. He tilted his head towards her and breathed in, smelling the sweet perfume she wore. Part of him wanted to lay back with a vacant smile and not a care in the world—the other part wanted to throw her down on the couch and take her then and there.

"I don't know if I can leave," he choked out, turning back to the window.

"Why? Don't tell me you'll miss this horrible planet." The rest of her hand slipped into his pants and he shifted awkwardly on the couch, his heart seizing as he felt her lithe fingers moving down below.

"No, it's not that."

The Falleen peered around to look him in the eyes. "The Togruta?" He nodded with lips pursed together, and she smiled.

"I can make you forget _all about_ her." She pulled her hand from his pants and stood to her feet, causing Torin's heart to sink in his chest. His spirits were immediately lifted when she stepped in front of him and straddled his legs, kneeling on either side of him on the couch, her chest level with his head.

"Undress me," she ordered him, holding her arms forward. As if in a trance, Torin gripped the sides of her top and pulled it upward, exposing two very human-looking green breasts that popped free of their confines. He dragged the garment up over her head and arms, then let it fall to the floor beside her. Mouth hanging open, he stared up at the woman straddling him.

Forget the view of Balmorra—he'd never seen a more breathtaking sight in his life. She shook her head, straightening her ponytail with one hand while she rested the other on his shoulder. As she rotated her head from side to side he spotted three slits on either side of her neck that looked like gills—not that it detracted from her beauty. In fact, every imperfection only seemed to _add_ to it, like a mole or a dimple would.

"Do you want to touch me?" She asked, looking down at him. He nodded slowly, hands pressed firmly to his thighs.

"You may touch." Chest thrust forward, she smiled as he reached up with shaky hands towards those twin mounds.

"What the _hell_ are you doing?"

The voice hit Torin like a slap across the face. He pulled his hands back from Sosyan, looking around in confusion for whoever had brought him crashing back to reality. Craning his head back to look behind the couch, he saw Vathaama standing near the elevator with a cowed Falleen attendant staring at the ground guiltily.

"I—" Torin swallowed, eyes darting from Sosyan to Vathaama.

"Were negotiations concluded satisfactorily?" Sosyan asked. Her attendant looked up briefly and nodded at her topless employer before turning back to the floor. "Then I suppose we are done here." She shuffled back on the couch and stood up, picking her top off of the floor and sliding it back on while she covered her gills with the garment's collar.

As Sosyan walked towards the elevator, Torin's high faded and he looked around in bewilderment, suddenly _very_ aware of everything that had just transpired. Standing to his feet and straightening his clothes, he stopped in his tracks when he saw his Master fixed to the same spot as before, a scowl spread across her face and her eyes burning a hole in him.

He'd woken from the dream, but he hadn't yet escaped the nightmare.

* * *

"What possesses you to do the things that you do?"

Vathaama sat in the hovercar with legs crossed and arms folded, scrutinizing her apprentice. He was curled up in the seat across from her, head cradled in the crook of his arm.

"Is it malice? Morbid curiosity? Or simple stupidity?" She leaned forward in her seat. "I'm talking to you!" He winced and squeezed his head between both hands.

"Please don't yell. I don't know why, but my head—"

"It's called withdrawal you _addict!"_

He sucked air in through his teeth, grimacing at the booming voice that echoed off of the cruiser's walls. Every noise was amplified tenfold—even the sound of the jewelry on her tendrils clinking together as she chastised him was an unbearable assault on his senses.

The car pulled up to the manor and a guard opened the door, waiting for the two passengers to exit. Balmorra's sky was still dark, though morning would come in only a few short hours. Upon entering they were greeted by Nomi, who watched Torin with concern while he stumbled through the entryway, eyes half-closed as he held one hand to the wall for guidance.

"Nomi, get him to his room," she snapped, pointing at the stairwell. "And make sure he doesn't fuck any alien _whores_ on the way there. Can you manage that much, apprentice?"

He nodded weakly as the Togruta scooped him up by the arm and began helping him up the stairs. Many groans and grunts later, the door to his room slid open and he fell face-first onto his inviting bed. Nomi yanked his boots off, then rolled him over onto his back. His eyes were closed, but his lips were still moving, as if he were speaking in a dream.

"What happened, Master?" She asked, leaning over him with one ear held above his mouth as she waited for the response.

"I could've left," he muttered. "Maybe I should've left..."

He went silent, and Nomi stood straight up and began to walk away. She stopped and walked swiftly back to the bedside, then leaned over his sleeping face for a brief moment before planting a single kiss on his lips. She left just as quickly, leaving the exhausted man to what few hours of sleep he could enjoy.


	8. A Drink Too Many

"Try again."

Torin looked from his Master to the small metal sphere on the table in front of him. Remaining kneeled, he once again extended his hands towards the sphere, screwing up his face and straining his muscles. The orb remained still and he exhaled, then dropped his arms to his sides.

"You're not trying," she chided him.

"Trying _what?"_ He shot back. "You just told me to _move_ it—you didn't say _how."_

"I can't _tell_ you how. It will come naturally."

"Clearly, it isn't."

"You froze my entire dining room in place—you should be able to move one measly ball."

He stared at her in silent disagreement. She could say he _should_ be able to do it all she liked, but that didn't bring him any closer to actually doing it.

"Do you remember what I told you about _will?"_

He thought for a moment. "That will is everything."

"Clearly you're not properly motivated."

 _She's not wrong._

His heart wasn't in this—not really. Every waking moment was dedicated to finding a way off Balmorra and away from his kidnapper, a task made more difficult by her overbearing nature. She hovered over him constantly, and the guards patrolling the manor at night made escape impossible even during the few short hours she left him in peace.

Even if he had no intention of becoming Vathamma's apprentice, he had to be careful not to disappoint her _too_ much. If he showed himself as having _no_ potential whatsoever, she may just dispose of him. On the other hand, displaying excessive promise would only draw more of her unwanted attention and 'guidance'. He was damned if he did, and damned if he didn't. All he could do now was walk that razor's edge as best he could while waiting for an opportunity to present itself.

Turning back to the table, he leaned forward on his knees and wrenched up his face, directing every last bit of grit and determination he could muster at the round bit of metal.

 _Move, damn you!_

The ball rolled an inch before coming to a stop.

"I did it!" He marveled, gesturing to the table.

"No, you didn't."

Above the table, the air conditioning whirred to life in a vent on the ceiling, pushing the ball off the table and onto the floor.

She wrinkled her nose thoughtfully. "Perhaps we need to raise the stakes." She slid her robe sleeve up her arm and spoke into her communicator. "Nomi, training room. Now."

The Togruta entered the room, slipping off her shoes at the entrance and plodding across the mat towards the Sith.

"Yes, Mistress?"

Gripping the Togruta by the shoulders, she shifted her a few steps to the side. "Dont move." She walked over to a weapon rack, selecting a vibrosword before walking back to Nomi.

 _What's she planning here?_

Standing a few feet away from her alien slave and off to the side, the Sith held the sword up in front of her.

"Hold your arm out," she commanded, and the Togruta raised her left hand in front of her.

The corners of her master's lips turned down in annoyance. "No, the _other_ one."

Nomi dropped her left arm and raised the right, holding it straight out with the the Sith's blade poised directly above it.

"What are you doing?" Torin snapped, moving towards the pair before Vathamma motioned as if to bring the blade cutting downward.

"Uh-uh," she said, shaking her head at her apprentice. "Use the Force. Save this slave's dainty little hand."

"Stop this," he shouted. "I can't do it!"

Nomi swallowed hard, keeping her gaze low enough to pretend that she couldn't see the sword hanging over her outstretched arm like a guillotine.

"Then Nomi will need to learn to write with her left hand." She looked up thoughtfully. "Though I'll probably have to sell her—I refuse to keep on a slave who can't cook."

Torin stood ready as if to move on Vathamma, but the sword hanging over the slave's arm warned him against any direct intervention.

"I'll do whatever you want—I'll keep practicing!"

"Do you think the brothels will take her?" The Sith mused, ignoring his protests. "A Togruta amputee may be a difficult sell."

Her apprentice thrust his hands out in front of him, fingers writhing as his arms quaked. He _hated_ her. He _hated_ this place. All that anger and frustration poured boiled over, spilling into his limbs, but still he felt nothing.

"I'm waiting," she chided, lifting the blade a few inches up and down in preparation. Her slave was shaking in place, tears welling up in the corners of her eyes.

Exhausted, Torin dropped his arms before shooting them forward once again, seeking out any untapped reserves of hatred he could possibly direct at his Master.

With a sigh, the Sith lifted the sword up and brought it swinging down.

"Wait!" Torin shouted.

As the weapon bore down on Nomi's arm Vathamma twisted it slightly in her grip, bringing the flat of the sword down on the Togruta's wrist. She cried out in pain, crumbling to the ground as she clutched her wrist. Vathamma stepped back and Torin rushed forward, falling to his knees in front of Nomi.

"Are you alright?" He lifted her injured arm and she winced, weakly moving her fingers up and down to test them. Torin shot a fierce look at Vathamma, one which she met with a cold, uncaring stare.

"Remember— _you_ let this happen." She walked to the weapon rack and set the sword down, then left the room while her apprentice helped the injured slave to her feet.

* * *

Torin knocked lightly on the door.

"Nomi," he whispered, casting anxious glances up and down the hallway. "Nomi." He waited a moment, then slowly slid the door open and stepped inside, shutting the door quietly behind him. Moonlight shone in through a window on the wall to his right, illuminating the bed on the other side of the room. Squinting as his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, he could see the Togruta's horns poking out from underneath the covers pulled up to the head of the bed. He crept over and shook the sleeping form buried under the blankets, whispering her name until a head shot up from the covers.

Still half-asleep, her eyes went wide when she saw the man kneeling beside her bed.

"What are you doing here, Master?"

He held a finger to his lips to quiet her. "Were leaving. I need to get you out of here."

"Leave?" She gasped. "What do you mean?"

"This planet! The empire!" He hissed. "Well go to Republic space!"

"The _Republic?_ But you're Sith—"

"I'm not!" He swallowed and took a deep breath in, gathering his thoughts. "I was in the Republic military. Vathamma kidnapped me after I did... _something_ with the Force. I'm not like these people—I don't belong here, and neither do you."

"But... I—" she pulled the covers over her chest as she sat up in bed, eyes darting around anxiously.

"It's too dangerous for you here," he urged her, putting his hands on one of her own. "Sooner or later, your Master's going to _kill_ you—or me."

"I can't leave," she exclaimed.

"I know you're scared of her, but once we get away—"

Her eyes snapped to the door. "Someone's coming."

Torin listened for footsteps, but couldn't hear a thing.

"Quick, hide!" She shouted in hushed tones.

Looking about the humble quarters, he couldn't find a single place to hide. The most viable option was a laundry basket half his size.

A hand shook his shoulder urgently and he turned around to see Nomi lifting her covers up, waving him into the bed. Looking back at the door, he finally heard footsteps and saw feet block out the light coming from underneath the door. Scrambling over the Togruta's bare legs, he pressed himself against the wall beside her bed and gathered up the bedding Nomi tossed over him.

Just as he settled down the door opened, and someone entered.

"Nomi? Are you awake?"

He recognized his master's voice immediately. Fear and anger welled up within him, adding to the oppressive heat of the thick blankets.

"Yes, Mistress," Nomi replied, rubbing her eyes and sitting up in bed.

Torin felt the bed shake as the Sith sat down on the side of it. He pressed himself further to the wall still, trying to lay as flat as possible.

"Oh, you poor child," Vathamma cooed, taking her slave's bandaged wrist in her hands and pressing the Togruta's palm to her own cheek. "You won't hold this against me, will you?"

"Of course not, Mistress!" She responded immediately.

"I feel _awful_ about what happened, but my apprentice forced my hand. You understand, don't you?"

The Togruta nodded.

"Good." She set Nomi's hand down on the bed and folded her own in her lap. "He seems to have taken a liking to you. Have you noticed?"

"Yes," she responded softly.

"Tell me, has he made use of you yet?"

She shook her head from side to side vehemently, and Vathamma stroked her own bejeweled chin.

"Hmm..." She reached out, holding one of Nomi's tentacles in between her fingers. "Make him fall in love with you." Bringing her hand to the Togruta's face, she gripped her cheeks and squeezed them together. "Put that pretty little face to use."

Heart pounding, Torin shifted as if to rise from the bed, but stopped when he felt one of Nomi's hands slip under the covers. It squeezed his shoulder tightly, and he settled back against the wall.

Nomi nodded to her mistress, who released her.

"It shouldn't be difficult. Give him a reason to stay." She rose from the bed and walked towards the door, then turned back to Nomi. "I don't need to tell you how displeased I would be if he were to run away... do I?"

"No, Mistress."

The Sith left, and Torin waited for her footsteps to disappear down the hall before he threw off the covers.

"She's out of her mind!" He rolled out of the bed, pulling Nomi to her feet. "You need to leave with me _tonight."_

The woman stared at him with an uneasy expression. "I _can't."_

"Why not?" He exclaimed. She met his question with pained silence, her mouth opening and closing until she shut it completely.

"Do you not trust me?" He dropped his arms, letting her hands slip from his own.

"I do!" She shot back, before growing reticent again. "I can't explain." She turned her head to the side, holding her arm with one hand and avoiding his searching gaze. Torin stood in front of her for a moment before opening the door, taking a careful look down the hallway before making his way back to his own bedroom.

* * *

 _I'm going to kill you._

He didn't care if it took a week, a month, or a year. He would kill his Master, and then he and Nomi could leave—together. He couldn't save every slave damned to servitude on this planet, but he could at least save _her._

"What are you waiting for, apprentice?"

Across from him on the mat, Vathamma stood ready with sword in hand. One look at the vicious blade made him recall every cut, gash, and welt incurred through its edge. His master _detested_ practice blades, and in only a few weeks of sparring sessions his body had become a patchwork quilt of scars and lacerations. Unable to bear the looks of silent concern Nomi gave every time he removed his shirt, he'd stopped asking the Togruta to patch him up, opting instead to perform the nightly ritual of med gel application in solitary repose.

"I'm waiting for you to give me an opening."

She laughed. "Then we will be here all day." Arms held out to her sides, she thrust her cloth-wrapped chest out at him. "Here's your opening."

The Sith was totally exposed, with nothing but 3 feet of air and a thin layer of fabric between Torin's blade and her heart. He slid forward on the mat, squeezing his sword's hilt as he pointed the blade forward at her.

 _Do it! Do it now!_

Thrusting the blade at her, he stopped a few inches short of her chest, unable to move forward any further. It wasn't her stopping the weapon—it was _him._

Vathamma eyed the blade poised at her sternum and tapped her bare foot on the floor. "Well?"

Torin bit his lip, his eyes burning a hole in her chest—but all he could see was the blood gushing from Sabinus' mouth and the look of disbelief on his face as the life slipped from the Sith Lord's body.

"You tried to shoot me on Uracco, didn't you?" She leaned forward and tilted her head to the side, scrutinizing his face. "It's harder to kill someone when you have to look them in the eyes, isn't it?"

He swallowed, adjusting his grip on the hilt.

"Did the sight of Sabinus' ghastly face have you swearing never to kill again?" She crowed. "Or have I missed the mark entirely..." A pair of red fingers ran down the length of his outstretched blade. "They say there's a fine line between love and hate. Have you grown _attached_ to me, apprentice?"

Face red with anger and embarrassment, he tensed his arms and tried to drive the weapon into her chest. Her smiling face invited him to do so, _daring_ him to prove her wrong. Finally his arms relaxed and he withdrew the blade, averting his eyes from hers. He wanted her dead, more than anyone he'd ever met. Despite that, he couldn't make himself drive the blade into her flesh.

She was right—murder wasn't easy. He'd laid in bed at night imagining himself choking the life from her thin neck as she writhed on the floor, but when it came time to _do_ it... he couldn't. All he could see was Sabinus, gasping for air while Torin asked himself just how much further downwards he would allow this place and it's people to drag him. He wanted her dead, but he didn't want to kill her—he didn't want to kill anyone anymore.

"What the hell do you want from me?" He asked, eyes directed at the ground while he waited for the inevitable lecture on the vast untapped power he squandered in his refusal to bow to her teachings.

"What do _you_ want?" Came the unexpected reply. He looked up to see her examining him with one hairless eye ridge raised curiously. "It's a simple question," she continued, waiting for his response.

"I want to go home."

"To do what, exactly? Go back to being a _farmer?"_ Her lip curled in amusement.

"Why not?"

"Because you're not a farmer anymore. You're a force sensitive, a killer—" She tapped the tip of his blade with her finger. "—and my apprentice."

Jaw clenched tightly, he spoke with fierce resentment. "You _made_ me those things."

She put a hand to her chest and opened her mouth as if she had taken offense to the accusation. "Only the _last_ of the three—and only to _save_ you from an ignoble death at the hands of an Imperial firing squad."

 _Does she expect a 'thank you'?_

"Besides," she said with a smile. "I know one poor girl who would be _heartbroken_ if you were to up and leave."

The implicit mention of Nomi set him on edge. "You think I don't know what you're doing?"

"Oh, I'm sure you do. But that doesn't exactly _help_ you, does it?" She walked to his side, gripping him by the arm and walking him out of the training room.

"Look at you, shaking with anger!" She laughed, clutching him to her side. "You're in just the right condition for me to show you off."

Chewing the inside of his lip, he stewed in silence while she waited for him to inquire further. At last she groaned in exasperation, stopping at an intersection of two halls.

"Don't you tire of being cooped up in this dreadfully empty palace?"

 _You know I do._

"Yes, I can see it in your eyes—you need to unwind."

 _"Unwind?"_ He looked at her uneasily.

"Yes," she beamed. "And what better way to do so than with a party?"

* * *

Torin stepped out of the car and stared up in awe at the Imperial embassy ahead. It was a sloping structure, the roof curving gently upward on either side and intersecting an enormous tower thrust far up into the night sky. People _called_ it an embassy, a necessary term since Balmorra was technically considered an ally, an independent planet liberated from the decadent hegemony of the Republic. In truth it was the center of Balmorra's government. The planet had civilian rulers, but few could even _name_ them offhand.

True power lay firmly in the grasp of Darth Dominus, the Sith Lord who had managed to gather Balmorra—and it's many armament factories—in his base of power. As a military leader who was frequently off-planet to oversee military operations against the Republic, the day-to-day governance fell to the lower Lords as a practical matter. With no firm portfolio or responsibilities given to them, they frequently fell into petty disputes against each other—an arrangement that suited Dominus, since it precluded any of those Lords from amassing enough power to challenge _him._

"You grew up on a farm, yes? You probably didn't know they could construct buildings this tall." Vathamma stepped out of the other side of the cruiser, walking around to join him on the red carpet stretching across the embassy courtyard. The vast open space was full of Sith, their servants, and the petitioners seeking to gain something from mingling with the Empire's elite. All were making their way across the stone plaza towards the entry stairway and the yellow lights coming from the windows covering the building's facade, heralding a party that was already in full swing.

"I've _seen_ skyscrapers before," he shot back, and began walking. Swiveling his eyes to his Master, he examined her surreptitiously. She wore a short-sleeved black dress with two red strips of fabric that ran over her shoulders, through the sash around her waist, and down to her sandaled feet. In a feat he hadn't thought possible, she had on even _more_ jewelry than usual. Golden rings wound nearly all the way around her throat, with small gaps underneath her hair bun on the nape of her neck. Pyramid-shaped earrings dangled from her lobes, jingling as she walked. The faint smell of flowers met his nostrils and he sniffed, looking around for the source of the smell before turning to Vathamma.

 _Is she wearing perfume? Do Sith wear perfume?_

"What?" She said, twisting up her brow and making him realize just how long he'd been staring at her.

He looked back towards the embassy a short distance ahead. "Nothing."

They passed the guards and ascended the stairwell, passing through a broad doorway into an expansive room filled with a multicolored array of humans, Sith, and a smattering of other species. The area had been filled with waist-high tables around which stood groups of partiers talking and laughing, some leaving occasionally to take advantage of the food tables lining the walls or the open bar opposite the entrance. Two massive staircases stood on either side of the bar, though they had been roped off by armored guards who stood nearby watchfully.

Vathamma gave a polite wave to someone in the throngs of people and started moving towards them. Torin followed before being stopped by a fingertip pushed against his chest.

"Don't follow me around like a puppy. Go! Mingle!" She walked away while he stood there shamefully. You could hate something but still grow accustomed to its presence—especially if it was all you knew. Torin looked around for something to do besides becoming a wallflower, and his eyes fell on the bar.

 _The universe owes me a drink._

Apologizing profusely as he squeezed through the crowded room, he ran into a servant holding a platter, nearly sending the plates sliding off of it and onto the floor.

"Sorry!" He exclaimed, grabbing the plate to steady it. He looked up, and saw a red-faced Togruta staring back at him.

"Nomi?" He gasped. The servant met his stare with no small amount of confusion.

"Who?" She asked, in a voice totally unfamiliar to him.

"Sorry, I thought you were—" the Togruta stepped back through the crowd, swiftly excusing herself. "—someone else."

A man in formal white servant's dress greeted him with an enthusiastic smile as he approached the bar. He looked Torin over, practiced eyes taking in every detail of his clothes and manner, quickly pinning down Torin's status. Someone with his occupation didn't last long if they offended the wrong person.

"What will it be, my Lord?"

"Uh..." Torin looked up and down the racks ahead of him, hundreds of bottles glowing with the radiance of the blue light set into the wall behind them.

"Do you have beer?"

The man winked and snapped his fingers. "Right away, my Lord."

"Something for humans!" Torin shouted hurriedly as the man ducked under the counter. The bartender emerged with a clear mug full of an amber liquid. The apprentice picked it up, eyeing the glass tentatively. It certainly _looked_ far more palatable than any of the neon-colored drinks lining the walls.

"Torin Val?"

He stopped mid-sip to search for the source of the voice, unable to place the smooth baritone until he recognized Lord Andar's orange countenance standing next to him at the counter. The servant behind the bar quickly made himself scarce, moving further down the bar to give the two Sith their privacy.

"I thought I recognized you," he said, placing a hand on the apprentice's shoulder. "You look like you feel as out of place as I do." Torin flashed him a knowing smile and nodded in greeting, placing his drink down and turning to face the man. He may have been a Sith Lord, but it was still nice to recognize _someone_ there.

"Sort of like my parents dragged me to a dinner party."

The Sith laughed, holding one hand to his stomach as he leaned on Torin's shoulder for support. "Yes, I can imagine. Though I'm surprised your master calls to mind _motherly_ images for you."

He grimaced. "More like a mean aunt."

"Yes, that seems a bit more appropriate." His eyes went from Torin's face to his neck, stopping on a scar that peaked out the collar of his tunic. "I see she's been working you to the bone." He pointed at the scar, and Torin straightened his collar, covering up his neck.

"You could say that."

With a shake of his head, the Sith turned towards the bar and leaned his arms on it.

"I can only hope you don't end up like the last one."

Torin leaned next to him. "What do you mean?"

Still deep in thought, the Sith did a double-take before realizing what he'd just let slip. "Oh, I shouldn't gossip."

"This is _important,"_ Torin whispered, shifting closer to him. The Sith pursed his lips and creased his brow before finally speaking.

"Well, it's no secret, anyways. Lady Vathamma is quite _infamous,_ even among Sith." Torin pressed his head forward, listening intently.

"What do you mean 'the last one'?"

"Her apprentice, Ruhos—the one before you."

Torin's heart skipped a beat, and he swallowed. "She killed him?"

"Oh, no," the Sith replied. "But it _is_ generally considered that her actions led directly to his death."

"What did she do?"

Standing up from the counter, the Sith averted his gaze. "I've already said too much. If you _truly_ want to know the story, you should ask her."

"It sounds like a sore subject," Torin said, leaning his back against the bar and crossing his arms.

"Yes, quite so—inquiring about it may not be the best thing for your health."

Torin ran a hand under his collar, feeling the scar on the side of his neck. "You're saying she'll get angry and kill me?" He smirked.

"It wouldn't be the first time," came the flat response.

"What? You said she didn't—"

"Oh, not her apprentice," the Sith interrupted. "Her master."

"Isn't that normal for Si—for us?"

"Of course," he replied. "But only after learning _all_ that a master has to offer." Andar glanced at Torin, who stared at him attentively. "She _murdered_ her master in a fit of rage. Her mastery of the Force has always been lacking, and she felt that he had failed her as a teacher."

"And no one stood up to her?" Torin wondered. "How's she so powerful now?"

He shrugged. "Brutality and no small amount of base cunning can take you _far_ in this world—I don't need to tell you that much."

 _No wonder she's such a monster—it's the only way she's stayed alive._

"It _does_ make me wonder what she has planned for you... but my curiosity may be overstepping its bounds."

"What do you—"

Andar's eyes shot away from Torin, searching the crowd. "Speak of the devil, and she shall appear." He left Torin with a pat on the shoulder, and the apprentice turned to see Vathamma squeezing through the clustered guests, greeting people as she passed them. Her eyes fell on Torin and she walked towards him, shooting Lord Andar a sideways glance on her way to the bar.

"What did _he_ want with you?" She asked, raising a finger to get the bartender's attention. Torin stared at her in silence, biting his lip and drumming his fingers on the counter. The bartender passed a glass to her with a curt bow and left. Vathamma moved to pick it up, but Torin grabbed it before she could, narrowing his eyes at her.

"What's gotten into you?" She asked in a huff. He took a sip from the glass before turning away, walking towards the center of the room as he discreetly spit the drink back into the cup.

 _Gods, that's awful._

As he made his way towards the crowds, his legs grew heavy and a blackness seeped into the corners of his vision.

 _How much did I drink?_

Looking at the glass as it fell from his hands and shattered on the floor, he looked up to see everyone nearby staring at him. He tried to speak, but the words would not come. With one last step forward his leg gave out, sending him toppling face-first towards the floor... but he never felt the impact.


	9. Give And Take

Torin shot up in bed with a start. Immediately he was hit with a wave of nausea that forced his head back down to the pillow.

"Ugh..." He groaned, unsure if the ceiling fan above him was turning or if the room itself was spinning.

"How do you feel?"

Tilting his head to his side, he saw Vathamma seated on a stool beside his bed.

"Terrible."

"You can speak, so it can't be that bad."

"What happened?" He asked, trying to recall the events that had led him there.

"You were poisoned."

"Poisoned?" His eyes went wide with fright and he sat back up. "You fixed me, right? I'm not _dead,_ so—"

"Not quite." She stood up and pressed her hand to his sternum, pushing him down to the bed while he winced in pain. He lifted up his shirt and stared in shock at the jagged black lines winding under his flesh, converging on his heart. He ran a hand across the lines and grimaced as he made contact with the tender flesh.

"What the hell _is_ that?" He exclaimed.

"Necrosis of the vascular tissue." Stroking her chin, she examined him with a detached concern. "It's slowly killing you."

His mouth opened and closed as he processed her words.

"Is there a cure? There has to be, right?"

"Well, we did enact a... _temporary_ solution." She sat down on the stool. "The poison was not a conventional one. It's been enhanced by Sith magic, and slowing its spread was all that could be done."

"So give me more of whatever you used to slow it!" The bed shook with his frantic gesturing, and his Master leaned away to avoid his grasping hands.

"You weren't _given_ anything," she explained, tugging down the neckline of her robe to reveal a spider web of black veins underneath her red skin.

"What... why are you—"

"Magic is fought with magic." She let her robe slip back up and closed her eyes. "A ritual was enacted to bind our two fates... until a cure can be found."

"Why would you _do_ that?"

It wasn't a question couched in concern, or fear for her safety—it was one of genuine disbelief. Whywould _she_ do that?

"I don't need to explain myself to you. What I _do_ need is to find a cure." Rising from the bed, she went to leave the room as Torin scrambled out of bed after her.

"Hold on! If this is going to kill me too, I want to do something about it."

Crossing her arms in the doorway, she turned to face him.

"How could you possibly be of use?"

"I don't know!" He shouted, tugging off his sleeping clothes and frantically changing into the gray tunic and pants laid out on the table at the foot of his bed. "Just tell me what to do!"

" _Now_ you want to obey me?" She raised an eyebrow suspiciously.

"I _want_ to not die." With a brief stumble he slipped his boots on and stood ready in front of her.

"Alright," she replied after a moment of thought, flashing a brief smile. "Were going off-planet."

* * *

Arms pressed to the dashboard, Torin examined the display console in front of his seat before looking out the window at the planet ahead of them. Stripes of beige and tan wound around the celestial body, dotted here and there with swirling eddies which looked small from orbit, but we're in fact storms hundreds of miles in diameter that had raged for centuries.

"What do you expect to find here? It's a gas giant—we can't even _land_ on it."

"Were not going to Yavin," Vathamma replied from the seat next to him, tapping a console display. "Were landing on its fourth moon."

As they circled the planet, the moon came into view. A blue and green pearl hanging in space, it had two continents dotted with lakes separated by a strip of water that ran the length of the moon.

"And a Sith lives there? One who can help us?"

"Lives? No. He died centuries ago."

Torin scoffed. "Then what are we doing here?"

"Because his Holocron lives on—as does the knowledge contained within it."

"And that'll tell us how to make a cure?"

"I should expect so. He _invented_ the poison, after all."

 _She 'expects so'._

Pushing his head back against the headrest, he absent-mindedly touched his chest. He'd managed to force himself to stop looking at the progress of the diseased veins snaking their way out of his heart, but he still found his hand traveling to it every few minutes, like he was picking at a scab he just couldn't leave alone.

The shuttle neared the moon, and as they entered the atmosphere they grew close enough to make out individual landmarks.

"We'll land there," she said, pointing at a clearing atop a rocky plateau. "We'll have a bit of walking to do." Dense jungle surrounded the outcropping, running endlessly in all directions. The stony caps of temples and pyramids poked out above the treeline, nearly overtaken by the overgrown forests that had sprung up after centuries of neglect.

"Don't you think someone would have taken this Holocron already? Grave robbers, scavengers, _someone."_

Setting the shuttle down, she snorted dismissively. "They wouldn't dare. This place is sacred to the Sith."

"Ok," he continued. "What about other Sith, then?"

"Well..." She unbuckled her harness and rose from her seat, lowering the ramp as Torin followed her to the rear of the ship. "Sith aren't supposed to come here, either. It's taboo."

"And that's not a problem for you?"

"You don't want to _die_ right?" She stopped to look at him standing on the ramp of the ship, scanning the jungle horizon uneasily. "I won't tell if you won't." A red hand slid over his shoulder, making him jump.

"Come, we shouldn't waste time."

Ahead of them, part of the plateau narrowed and sloped downward, wrapping around the cliff and veering down into the jungle below. Stone steps jutted out of the ground here and there, the only indication that the dangerous-looking stairway was man-made. Vathamma motioned for Torin to go first, watching Torin skate down uneasily on the gravelly slope with no small amount of amusement. The edges of her robes held in her hands, she took measured steps and watched the ground as she followed carefully.

Further down, the open air gave way to jungle as they followed the cliffside. The moon may have been abandoned, but it wasn't without life—the rustle of leaves and the caw of birds, barely audible from atop the plateau, had grown downright raucous. Torin wanted to shout at them to be quiet, but worried about attracting animals more threatening than the obnoxious—but harmless—fauna he currently faced.

Upon leaving the slope they began following what could only very _generously_ be called a path, Torin trusting that Vathamma knew the way to whichever temple they were seeking out. She had grown quiet, and her forehead was creased thoughtfully.

"What is it?" He asked. She slowed her walk, stretching her arm out in front of them to indicate that he should do the same.

"Do you hear that?"

"Hear what?" He whispered, as if fearing that breaking the silence of the jungle would invite some curse upon them. Realisation dawned on him, and he looked around at the massive trees surrounding them. "It's quiet..."

She nodded silently, then stopped. As he scanned the canopies above for any sign of the birds that had filled them only a short time ago, a blow landed square in his stomach, sending him flying backwards. Heat and light surged past him as he was pushed away from Vathamma, his Master moving through the air in the opposite direction. She had pushed him with the Force, sending the two landing in the roots of two trees on either side of the path. An explosion came from further down the trail, and he looked to see a blaster hole the size of his head sizzling in the trunk of a tree. Shouts came from the other direction, a harsh alien language he couldn't recognize. Vathamma held out her hand, urging him to stay put as she peaked through the undergrowth around her to see the source of the blaster fire. He ignored her warnings and did the same.

Three figures walked down the path. One red, one green, and one yellow, they wore padded flight suits that left their scaled feet and forearms uncovered. Their faces were reptilian, narrow eyes and flat snout seated above mouths of sharp teeth warped into a permanent sneer.

 _Trandoshans? Here?_

One pair of eyes snapped to him and he pressed his back against the tree trunk. There were three of them, and he didn't have a gun—he didn't even have a vibroblade.

 _Wait... I have a Sith Lord._

Turning to his right, he saw that the hiding spot Vathamma had occupied lay empty.

 _Of course._

More short barks from the Trandoshans told him that they were quickly closing on his position. Heart pounding, he looked around for cover but saw only ferns and shrubs. Any attempt to make a dash for it likely meant a hail of blaster fire in his turned back.

The footsteps stopped, and one of the aliens shouted at him in a commanding tone. He peaked around the tree and saw the yellow Trandoshan in the center standing with his gun lowered as he continued to direct his hissing and clicks at Torin's position. The other two had their guns trained on him while they scanned the periphery for any sign of his Master.

 _Maybe they're just scavengers?_

Taking a deep breath in to steady his nerves, he held his hands out in view of the trio and waited for them to acknowledge the sight of his empty palms with a few hostile-sounding shouts. He stepped out onto the path and they raised their guns, making guttural noises as he slowly approached them with hands raised.

"I can't understand you," Torin shouted, enunciating each word clearly. He pointed at his ears and shrugged, then shook his head. They shouted some more, but stopped when they heard a rustle of leaves from above. Vathamma fell to the ground from the jungle canopy, her red lightsaber cutting a wide arc around her as she landed. The green Trandoshan's blaster fell to pieces, split in two as her blade cut a path through his rifle and across his chest. The other two scattered as their comrade collapsed, seeking to put some distance between them and the marauding Sith.

As the yellow Trandoshan slid to a crouched stop and began firing off bolts at her, she gave chase, deflecting them into the foliage behind the alien. Behind her, the red Trandoshan had raised his rifle and peered through the sights, taking far more careful aim than his comrade. Without thinking, Torin ran at the alien, throwing his arms around the reptile and tackling him to the ground. The two struck dirt and the rifle rolled into a cluster of bushes, reducing the fight to a crude brawl.

Sharp claws swiped at Torin, the human moving his face away as he held his foe's head to the dirt with one hand, batting away the alien's arms with the other. Both of the Trandoshan's arms moved to one side and Torin leaned his weight forward, pressing down on his shoulder while the Trandoshan flailed on his side. With the opportunity granted by the moment of control he'd bought himself, his hand shot to the ground and searched for something—anything—to use as a weapon.

His fingers touched stone and he grabbed onto a rock the size of his fist, then swung it into the side of his opponent's head. The reptile let out a pained grunt, shaking free of Torin's hold and scratching at the human's face with his claws. Torin brought the rock down again, harder this time. A wet _crack_ sounded out as the stone met the creature's skull, followed by a screech. As he brought the stone down again and again, the screeches grew quieter, then finally stopped. Lifting the stone, he saw that his enemy's face was caved in grotesquely, it's scaled skin pooled with the same blood covering the rock he let drop to the ground.

He staggered to his feet and walked away from the lifeless body, not stopping until he had found a tree to lean on. Nausea washed over him, rising from the pit of his stomach to his throat, making him double over and puke. Nearby, Vathamma looked over the lightsaber-seared corpse of the yellow Trandoshan before stowing the weapon in her waistband.

"Don't die before we get there," she chided him, lip curled in disgust.

"It's not the disease." He retched, dry heaving at the roots of the tree he leaned against with one arm. "I just _killed_ someone."

She glanced over at the mangled corpse he'd just fled. "Yes, yes—very impressive."

 _That's not what I meant._

The Sith resumed walking their original course, and Torin jogged to catch up as he wiped his mouth with his sleeve. Her eyes were darting every which way, but not in a watchful manner—more like she were actively searching for something.

"Ah-ha!" Her hands parted a bush to reveal a small clearing, and the six speeders stashed within. They were loaded down with saddlebags of ammunition, and blaster rifles strapped to the sides. She went to peak in the bags while Torin circled the vehicles.

"I thought you said scavengers didn't come here," he noted.

"They _don't,"_ she stated confidently.

Torin stopped at the side of a speeder as he examined the insignia painted on the side. The other three had been blank, rusted over junk that by all rights shouldn't even work. This one was in similar condition, but the symbol painted on the side made it stand out to him.

"What's this mean?"

Vathamma walked over to join him and looked at where he was pointing. The insignia in question was a long animal skull with curved horns that ended near the four teeth sticking out of the bottom of the creature's jaw. At the top of the skull, near the left horn, was a small lightning-shaped crack. Two empty eye sockets stared back at master and apprentice.

"Were leaving." She spun around and left the clearing while Torin started after her.

"What do you mean, _leaving?_ What about finding a cure?"

"I'll figure out something else."

"What do you mean figure out something else? What else is there—"

A whistle and the flare of a rocket passing above the tree canopy caused the pair to stop and look upwards. Faintly visible through the foliage was a fiery light that flew past them towards the plateau they'd come from. An explosion followed, the blast shaking the treeline and sending the wildlife around them into a noisy frenzy.

"Was that our ship?" He gasped, turning to her.

She looked around, and for the first time he thought he saw genuine fear in her eyes. If not fear, then at least grave concern

"I need to find a communicator."

He pointed at her bracelet. "What about that thing?"

She held up the comm unit wrapped around her wrist. "Does _this_ look like it can send a signal off-planet?"

Thinking quickly, Torin jogged back to the speeders and began rummaging through the saddle bags.

"Don't even bother," the bushes behind him parted as Vathamma pushed her way through as well. "We need to find their ship—or a communications array."

Pulling his hands from the bag, he turned to her. "Why are you so worried? We killed half of them, right?" He gestured at the six speeders.

"I'm not _worried,"_ she spat, looking at the skull-emblazoned speeder. "I'm _cautious._ That fourth speeder belongs to a _Mandalorian_ —like the one that so rudely interrupted my dinner party."

Torin's face went white. "That was a Mandalorian?" The corners of his mouth turned upward as he remembered how he had made the man run away.

"Oh, don't look so pleased with yourself." A hand slapped him on the back of his head, and he rose to his feet as he smoothed his hair back.

"And _one_ Mandalorian wouldn't ordinarily concern me, if it weren't becoming clear that there is an ongoing effort to assassinate me."

The crackle of static had both of them assuming a guarded stance as they looked around for the source of the noise. One of the speeders' radios had come alive, the halting bark of a Trandoshan streaming through the intercom.

Torin knelt over the communicator, fingering the button. "Should I answer it? Say we didn't find anyone?"

"What are you going to say?" She scoffed. "Hiss-hiss, click-click?"

Both of them left the clearing, a frowning Torin following his swiftly moving Master.

"What are we going to do now? Where are we going?" He danced circles around her as they marched through the underbrush, arms flapping as he questioned her.

"Were going to do what we _came_ here to do," she replied, holding an arm out in front of him to slow his frantic gait. "Trust in the Force, apprentice."

He wrinkled his lip. "I didn't know Sith were in the business of trusting in _anything."_

"Of course we do," she laughed. "What would we place our trust in, if not our own power—and where do you think our power comes from?"

Mulling over her words while they kept a careful eye on their surroundings, he saw that the treeline was beginning to thin out, with clear sky visible ahead of them.

"You should try _trusting_ sometime," she continued.

"Trust who? You?" He snorted. "That's rich."

 _"No,"_ she stated. "In your own power. This planet is steeped in the power of the Dark Side. You should try letting it in."

Exiting the forest they came to a cliffside, the edge of a second plateau below the one they'd landed on. Vathamma was silent as she scanned the jungle below, and Torin was more than happy to let their previous conversation drop.

"Ah-ha." Arm extended, the Sith pointed at a pyramid poking out from the treeline, taller than any others visible on the horizon. Vines snaked across the Dark gray stonework, the sloped walls ending in a flat top that sat open to the air, the cap left unfinished. "That's our destination."

It didn't look far—under an hour's walk, as the crow flies. Problem was that nothing worked like that in reality, especially not on this planet. Looking to his right and then his left, he spotted a path winding down from the cliffside into the jungle below. Vathamma began walking to it, and he swallowed hard before following. He hadn't exactly enjoyed the first hike down such a slope, and this one looked far more precarious.

"Is this safe?" He asked, tapping a foot on the slope. Pebbles and loose soil rolled downward, emphasizing its questionable stability.

"Oh, not at all," came the reply. "Would you rather wait up here?" She began walking down the slope. Torin gave one last furtive glance back in the direction of the _six_ speeders and their _three_ deceased owners, then followed her.

As they descended, the path became smaller. They were getting closer to the ground—surely they _had_ to be—yet his vertigo intensified with the increasing narrowness of the trail. Multiple times he had to stop, pressing himself to the cliffside and closing his eyes as he tried to forget about the vast open space below waiting to devour him.

"Will you hurry up?" His Master shouted from further ahead. "I _am_ trying to save your life."

Swallowing, he forced himself to resume pushing along the path. They reached a point where they could no longer walk one foot in front of the other, instead having to push their backs against the rocks as they shuffled from side to side.

"I wouldn't _be_ here if it weren't for you!" He shouted into the open air in front of them.

"How is any of this my fault?"

"Wha—" he exclaimed in disbelief. "You _kidnapped_ me, almost had me killed _twice—"_

"When are you going to learn to take responsibility for your own life?" She asked, shuffling along at a steady pace. " _You_ drank a poison meant for _me."_

"Exactly!" Stopping, he dug his hands into the cliff behind him to steady himself. "You're going to get me killed, just like your last apprentice!"

She stopped and twisted her head back to look at him. "Where did you hear about that?"Her face was twisted up in anger, though he saw another emotion mixed up with it—fear? Sadness? Regret? He wasn't sure, but it was the first time he'd seen her display a genuine emotion other than rage, and he felt emboldened to push further. She'd pressed every button he had, and now he'd found one of hers.

"Does it matter?" He shot back. "You got him killed, and now you're going to get _me_ killed!"

Her eyes narrowed with a focused fury. "Do not _speak_ about things you know nothing about!" Bits of rock and dirt shook from the cliff above them as she shouted, sprinkling on their heads—but neither one noticed.

"Or _what?_ You'll kill me?" He slapped his chest, not even wincing as he struck the poisoned tissue. "You already did that! What _exactly_ are you going to threaten me with?"

One hand held out in front of her as if to choke him, she shook with barely contained rage. A vein throbbed on her forehead, and he was sure that her face would have turned crimson it weren't already a permanent shade of red.

A blaster bolt sailed between their faces, causing both Master and Apprentice to look up for the source of the shot. Two Trandoshans stood on the edge of the cliff, rifles pointed downwards as they fired at the pair below. Torin and the Sith beside him pressed themselves back against the wall, seeking to deny the aliens a clear shot, but they were too exposed. Another bolt nearly took off Vathamma's head, and she snatched her lightsaber from her side, bringing it above her head to deflect their attack. Torin crouched down, shielding his head with his hands more out of reflex than any degree of rational thought.

" _Do_ something," she shouted at him, her arms twisting awkwardly to manipulate the saber while she struggled to maintain her balance on the narrow path.

"Do _what?"_ He responded, showing her his empty hands as she deflected a bolt above him. The plasma struck the cliff above them, sending rock and soil onto Torin's head as he shielded himself again. "I don't have a lightsaber, I don't even have a _gun_ — _"_

"You have the _Force!_ Use it"

Palms held out in front of him, he searched within himself, then without, feeling the humid air, the call of the birds, the whistle of air around him in between rounds of blaster fire—but there was nothing. No Force, no reservoir of power to draw on, no 'Dark Side' waiting for him to take control of. Just dead temples on a dead world—like he would be, in a moment.

As Vathamma directed more blaster fire back at the Trandoshans, the cliff began to crumble, sending more and more rocks hurtling past them on all sides. She deflected one final bolt at the trio's feet, shattering an outcropping of rock below them and causing the entire cliff to begin to crumble. Boulders slid out from the rock face, rolling towards them as the screaming Trandoshans fell into the canopy below. Stowing her lightsaber, Vathamma extended her hands upward and focused.

Torin watched in awe as a faint violet bubble formed around her, encapsulating him as it extended its reach. Rocks and dirt smashed against it, making the Sith groan with each impact. The fissure forming in the cliff above stretched downward until it reached them, and their precarious foothold finally gave way. Torin's stomach seemed to stay in place as the rest of him fell, and he reached out to try and grasp onto the swiftly crumbling cliff. Vathamma, who had lost her own tenuous foothold, spun in the air and grabbed onto his wrist, pulling him into a mid-air embrace. With the protective bubble of energy around them still intact they plummeted through the air, and into the jungle below.

* * *

"Hey! Hey!" Torin shook the Sith's body frantically, but there was no response. With baited breath he pressed his ear to her mouth and waited.

 _She's breathing._

With a sigh of relief he stood up and looked around. The wreckage of the avalanche was all around them—he'd even spotted a scaly arm jutting out of a pile of rubble a few dozen feet away. He didn't want to go digging to check, but assumed that the other Trandoshan had met a similar grisly end.

To his left was the cliff, the path they'd partially descended now totally gone. To his right lay the jungle, and somewhere within it the temple his Master had pointed out. Kneeling down beside the Sith, he pushed aside a lock of hair that had been matted down with blood.

 _She almost looks peaceful._

He could leave her here... but then what? The cure to the poison coursing through his veins wasn't in the temple—only instructions on how to make one. There was also the small matter of getting off-world.

No—as much as he hated to admit it, he still needed her.

 _Now I'm thinking like a Sith._

With a few grunts and some awkward fumbling he hoisted her limp form onto his back, her head coming to rest in the crook of his neck. As he walked towards their destination he adjusted her several times, becoming increasingly conscious of the woman. The breasts pressed into his back, his fingers digging into her buttocks, that sweet smell coming from her head beside his own. He _was_ a man, after all—and she was remarkably tolerable company without the psychopathic personality accompanying her otherwise pleasant body.

"Why am I carrying you?" He asked, twisting his head to look at her face. Her hair bun had come undone, and the long black strands hung in front of her face.

Silence.

"Aren't you supposed to be saving _my_ life?"

He marched onward, and just as he thought his legs would give out, he spotted it—the temple. It was only by virtue of the forest's density that he hadn't seen it half an hour before. The wall stretched far in either direction, and he couldn't even spot the corners before the stonework disappeared off into the foliage. Ahead of him was a dark passageway, barely any larger than him. It seemed almost comically small for an entryway to such a massive structure.

"Wait here." Lowering the unconscious woman from his back, he set her down and gently leaned her head against a tree. Making his way to the temple doorway, he took one last glance back at her before stepping into the gloom.

The passageway seemed to grow narrower as it stretched downward and inward towards the center of the temple. The walls closed in on Torin, the ceiling growing further away even as the stone on either side of him grew oppressively close. His left shoulder scraped rock as he walked, and he shifted to the right only to meet the opposite wall. His breathing became labored and he broke out into a run, hands held forward as he guided himself along the straight and narrow route down. He could see a light, a faint red glow that heralded an escape from this claustrophobic nightmare. Just as he thought he could take no more he shot out from the passage into a room whose sheer vastness overwhelmed him as much as the cramped passage he'd emerged from.

At first he'd thought he'd popped back out into the jungle, that the canopy was so thick it had blocked out the sun—but as he looked around, he saw that he was still within the temple. A single, massive space spanned the pyramid's interior. Carved walls led upward on all four sides—he assumed so at least, since he couldn't even _see_ the far side—terminating at the apex of the structure which had been left open, allowing sunlight to shine down through the center of the tomb. Standing stones as wide as his wingspan and four times his height were scattered all around in concentric circles surrounding whatever lay at the center. They were carved with some pictographic writing he couldn't recognize—let alone read—and the etchings throbbed with a crimson glow that illuminated their immediate surroundings. Kneeling in front of each pillar was a skeleton, their hands clasped and heads bowed reverently in permanent, undying prayer. Some held swords and staves in their laps, while others had long since collapsed in a loose pile of bones and ancient funerary wear.

A shiver ran down Torin's back, a lasting chill that set into his bones while he slowly made his way towards the center of the room, weaving his way around the pillars as he examined the eerie structures. In a way, his state of unease was comforting—what would it say about him if such a place _didn't_ bother him?

 _I'd rather not be here at all._

That'd be ideal, but life had a way of making you do things you never expected to. Fighting in a war, standing up to a Sith Lord, _killing_ a Sith Lord, killing _again_ —what was a little grave robbing compared to what he'd already done? He certainly wasn't going to lose any sleep over violating the sanctity of a Sith tomb world. He did, however, worry about the practical implications of doing so. Could he be cursed for setting foot here? It seemed odd to call that a _practical_ concern, but he'd heard tales of so-called 'Force Ghosts', spiritual remnants of powerful force users. Like any rational person he'd dismissed such things as bedtime tales to scare kids, but as he got closer to the center of the tomb and whatever the skeletons around him were praying to, he found himself wondering if maybe it was true.

A sarcophagus came into view as he passed the final ring of obelisks. It stood upright, far shorter than the stones encircling it but still taller than Torin. On the front was carved a man...

 _No, not a man. A Sith._

Without the advantage of skin color it had been hard to tell at first, but the face was unmistakably Sith. He had tendrils like the other Purebloods he'd seen, though this individual looked far more alien than they did. Long fleshy tentacles hung from either side of his upper like a mustache, and he wore a gilded sleeveless tunic that went down to his knees. The Lord's hands were held out in front of him, and in his stony grip he clasped a pyramidal Holocron, a microcosm of the tomb itself. On top of the Holocron was a crystalline red cap that shone with the sunlight above them. Torin reached out and tapped the top, yanking his arm back as he waited for something to happen.

Nothing.

Reaching out again, he poked around the cube, searching out some button or means of activation. Growing frustrated, he slapped the top and pulled back with a grimace as the jagged tip cut into his hand. Blood dripped from a small gash in his palm, and he saw that the bloodied Holocron was flickering to life. Red rays of light shot out towards him, temporarily blinding him as he was engulfed in light. Shielding his face as he stepped back, he lowered his arm to see a holographic image of the entombed Sith Lord.

"You stand before Darth Iyaztoz." The partially corrupted digital figure flickered as the Sith crossed his arms and thrust his chest out proudly. "Which of you comes seeking my wisdom?"

Confused, Torin began to turn around, stopping as a sharp pain shot through his chest. As he looked down he saw, glinting in the ray of sunlight coming from above, the tip of a metal blade sticking out through the right side of his ribcage.

"I didn't hit any vital organs," came a deep voice behind him, heavily modulated as if through a helmet. "But if you go squirmin', that's gonna change."

Red began to spread outward from the wound, and shock gave way to burning pain that radiated outward from the wound. Unable to speak, he held shaky hands up to the blade, but was soon interrupted by his attacker pushing the blade to the left, directing him to swivel in place. He grimaced and bit his tongue until he tasted iron, unsure if the blood in his mouth was from that or the blade he was impaled on.

"You kill my men?" He asked.

Torin nodded, eyes wide as he stared at the blade.

"That's alright," came the reply. "Couldn't stand the scaly bastards anyway."

 _The Mandalorian?_

"All I'm here for is your Master. I get her, you get to live. Understand?"

He nodded again, afraid to try and speak with the metal edge so close to his lung.

"Good. Call for her."

Remaining silent except for the strained breathing and pained gasps escaping his mouth, he felt the knife in his back began to slowly twist in place.

"Master!" He yelled, his shout echoing throughout the tomb before returning to him as a whisper.

Silence.

The man behind him snorted. "Guess you don't merit a—"

He stopped and turned in place, dragging Torin along with him painfully. Footsteps sounded ahead of them, and Vathamma stepped out from behind a pillar, appearing and disappearing with the ebb of the red light beside her.

"Feel the Force," she said. Torin felt a tingle in his fingertips, and looked down to see small sparks shooting from them, a soft crackle coming with each discharge of energy.

"Look at what I caught!" Came the shout next to his ear as an armored hand pulled his forehead back, exposing his neck. Vathamma took a step forward, and a blaster appeared beside Torin's head, shooting a blaster bolt towards his Master. It struck its mark, only for the Sith to dissolve into an immaterial cloud of mist.

"Oh, boy." The Mandalorian sighed behind him. "Were doing _this_ now?"

Footsteps came from the right, and the mercenary shot the blaster, only for his target to disappear once again. Torin brought his hands together, and the electricity began to arc from finger to finger in a continuous transfer of energy. The blade buried in his chest shifted again, breaking his focus as his hands moved to put pressure around his wound. The Mandalorian moved from pillar to pillar, shooting at the apparitions stepping out from behind them—knowing they were likely illusions, but forced to engage them lest one turn out to be the genuine article.

"This is getting old!" He shouted. "Come out here or this boy dies!" The knife in Torin's chest dug deeper, widening the wound and making him yell in pain. The awkward pair darted around a pillar, and came face to face with the Sith.

"Ah... there you are," the mercenary said. Vathamma sat propped up against a pillar, breathing heavily while she clutched one arm that hung limply at her side.

"You felt the Force," the Sith said, ignoring the Mandalorian as she stared Torin in the eyes. "Now _use_ the Force."

He looked down at his hands to see them crackling with energy. Bringing his fingers closer, they once again surged with power that arced between them. To his side he saw the mercenary bringing his blaster to bear on Vathamma, and Torin clamped his hands down on either side of the blade sticking out of his chest. Electricity shot through his body and into the metal, drawing a high-pitched shriek from the man behind him. He heard the clatter of metal boots against stone behind him, and the blade yanked free of his chest. With an anguished gasp Torin fell onto all fours, then quickly swiveled his head back to look at his attacker.

"You're _dead!"_ The Mandalorian screamed, clutching his helmet. Torin could see wisps of smoke trailing out from around the helmet's T-shaped visor. Steadying himself, the Mandalorian stomped back towards the wounded Apprentice, wrist blade still extended on his left hand with the blaster in his left pointed at Torin.

"There ain't enough credits in the galaxy—"

His words were cut short as Vathamma's lightsaber spun through the air, slicing through the blaster and nearly taking the mercenary's trigger finger with it. The two halves of the gun spun backwards into the darkness, and the Mandalorian leapt forward with a brief flare of his jetpack, blade pointed at Torin.

Having no intention of ending up with a knife through the throat like Lord Andar's apprentice, Torin pressed himself to the stone floor and kneed the mercenary in the chest as he passed overhead, slamming against one of the obelisks dotting the room. Torin scrambled to his feet and ran towards him, yanking a sword from a skeleton's grip as he moved with a speed and surety born of sheer adrenaline.

The Mandalorian rose to his feet just in time to block Torin's descending blade with his armored wrists. The weapon shattered in half as it struck, Torin's look of disappointment turning to fear as a wrist blade was thrust towards his face. He grabbed the man's arm and spun around, his back striking the pillar just as the mercenary's other fist nearly connected with his cheek.

Straining with his back pressed up against the pillar, Torin held the man's wrists as the two stood there engaged in a battle of raw strength.

"I'm gonna _enjoy_ this," the Mandalorian said, the taller man's helmeted head looming over Torin. Through the cracked visor a green eye stared back at him, wild with battle lust. As the red light coming from the pillar behind Torin waxed and waned, he saw the wrist blade growing ever closer. In vain he tried to summon the power that had coursed through his fingertips a few short moments ago, but it was no use. He didn't know if he'd used up whatever power he'd tapped into, if he was too afraid to focus, or if his hands were simply too far apart for the energy to flow. Regardless, the electricity would not come. Gritting his teeth, Torin looked downward as he struggled against his stronger opponent. The man was a veritable arsenal unto himself, his armor covered in gadgets and weaponry.

"Any last words," the Mandalorian asked. Torin looked back upward, meeting the man's eyes.

"Yeah." A _click_ came from the mercenary's belt, and a small metal orb floated up between the two. "Don't bring a knife to fight a Sith." Through the visor Torin could see the man's eye go wide with fear. A violet force field formed in front of Torin, separating the hands of the two men just as the grenade detonated. The Mandalorian was thrown back into the darkness, and Torin was pushed back against the pillar by the force of the explosion as the field protecting him gave way. Vathamma lowered her hand and groaned in exhaustion, her powers pushed to their limit.

Scrambling to his feet as he gripped his side, Torin limped over to his Master. The temple had begun to shake immediately after the explosion, a deep rumble that only grew in intensity as rocks and dust sprinkled down from the sloped ceiling above.

"We need to get out of here!" She shouted over the scraping sound of stone sheltering from stone.

Torin gripped his torso tightly to try and stop the bleeding, speaking in between raspy breaths. "What about the Holocron?" He wheezed.

She looked back at the holographic Sith Lord still projected in front of the sarcophagus, then turned back to Torin and pointed towards the entryway back the way they had entered.

"I'll get the cure. _You_ get out of here," she ordered. With a nod he began a slow jog towards the exit, and his Master ran to the Holocron.

"You stand before Darth Iyaztoz," the ethereal figure intoned as rocks fell all around the two Sith, one living and one dead. Looking back, she saw that Torin had disappeared from sight.

"Yes, yes. I know." She turned away from the Holocron and ran back the away she had came.

"Do you come seeking my knowl—" a stone slab crushed the sarcophagus and Holocron, cutting the ghostly apparition short.

Back in the entryway, Torin found himself once again scraping the sides of a hallway that seemed intent on crushing him in its stony grip. Rumbles came from behind, driving him out into the jungle as he struggled to breath and hold in what little blood he had still flowing through his veins. At last he stumbled out into the jungle, staggering another ten feet before falling onto his hands and knees. The hand that had held his chest was stained red, and he saw that blood had dripped down to his pants, nearly soaking the gray fabric. His breaths were becoming shallower and more labored even as they became louder, his wheezing turning to a wet cough. He nearly collapsed face first onto the forest floor as blood spilled from his mouth, staining the mossy ground red.

 _I don't want to die._

He'd been through so much, come so far—it couldn't all end here. The Force was _within_ him, he had _used_ it. Why not again? Not the Dark Side, not it's sinister power. He was a good person, with a good heart. He'd never wanted to cause death—he _loved_ life. That was why he couldn't let _his_ end here.

Digging his fingers into the dirt, he closed his eyes and extended his awareness outward. All around him, so much life. The trees, ancient and protective. The birds and mammals in the trees above him, their constant noise making reminding the world that they were there. Even the bugs and bacteria in the soil beneath his hands. So much life, all around him—why couldn't _he_ take some of it?

Warmth flowed in through his fingertips, then up his arms and all throughout his body. His breathing became less labored, and oxygen flowed freely as his paralyzed airway relaxed. Blood flowed with renewed vigor, surging through his veins and arteries, strengthening muscles that had felt as if they would give out at any moment.

Vathamma emerged from the temple as dust spewed out from the passageway behind her, clouding her vision and stinging her eyes. As she blinked the particulate from her eyes, she saw him kneeling on the ground, hands pressed against the soil.

"Apprentice?" She called out, but he did not respond. She began to walk towards him, but stopped when she saw the greenery beneath him began to darken and wither. The grayness spread outwards with him at its center, overtaking bushes and trees that shriveled into husks of their former selves. Something hit the ground next to her and she jumped, turning to see a bird lying dead at her feet. More _thumps_ came from all around as animals fell from the trees, dying before they had even struck the forest floor. She felt warmth on the back of her neck and looked upward to see leaves falling like rain as the jungle canopy had all life drained from it, revealing the sun and open sky between gnarled branches.

Mouth agape, she turned back to her Apprentice to see him lying face-down on the ground. She ran over and rolled him onto his back, yanking open his blood-soaked tunic. His chest still bore the blackened veins of the poison in his body, but the massive wound on the right side had disappeared completely. Running a hand over the bloody flesh, she felt for a scar—nothing.

* * *

For the second time in as many days, Torin shot up with a start, unsure of whether he was alive or in some bardo realm of undeath. The room wasn't his own, but it _did_ look familiar. Medical equipment lined three of the walls, and windows on the fourth looked out on a clear blue sky. The walls were beige with blue striping along the base and near the ceiling, just like the ones at Vathamma's manor. Had he somehow made it home?

 _Wait... home?_

He wanted to slap himself for calling it that, but his mind immediately went to more important matters. Throwing off his blankets from the hospital bed he lay on, he pulled up his shirt and examined his chest—it was perfect.

No blackened veins, no gaping chest wound, not even a scar. With a sigh of immense relief he settled back onto the bed and stared out the windows to his right. A flock of white birds flew by, crying out as a group to herald the morning or evening. He wasn't quite sure which, but he didn't care—he was just happy to be alive.

"I see you're up."

Rolling his head on the pillow to look to his left, he saw Vathamma standing in the doorway, arms folded in her robe's sleeves.

"I'm... alive?" He wondered aloud, as if the likelihood of such an outcome were so remote that he needed someone else to confirm that it was actually _real._

"Very astute of you," she replied sarcastically, walking to his bedside.

"I mean, I'm cured? No poison?"

She tilted her head back and looked down her nose at him. "That is correct. I managed to use the knowledge gleaned from the Holocron to formulate a cure—at _great_ personal expense."

He reached his hand underneath his shirt and felt the right side of his chest.

"What about my wound? I got stabbed, and then—"

"I healed you," she replied quickly. "Though it was difficult, given how much I'd _strained_ myself in the events leading up to that."

He lowered his hand to his side and looked away. " _Healed_ me? I didn't know the Dark Side..." He trailed off.

"All things are possible with the Force," she explained. "Perhaps in time, you'll come to learn some of them."

He nodded absentmindedly, face still turned away from hers. She silently excused herself, stopping in the threshold of the doorway as she heard Torin speak from his bed.

"Thanks," he barked out, nearly swallowing the words halfway through.

"Of course," she replied softly, head cocked back just enough to see him staring out the window. "You _are_ my apprentice, after all." With a smile she left the room and made her way through the manor hallways, the corners of her mouth turning down as she grew further from the makeshift hospital room. She entered her meditation quarters and let the door slide closed behind her, shutting her eyes and deepening her breathing as she walked towards a wall beside the door filled hung with primitive weapons and trophies of war. Her breathing grew faster and louder no matter how much she tried to calm it, her nostrils flaring and her brow creasing.

Her hand shot to her waist and she pulled out her lightsaber, activating it and slashing at the wall in front of her as she screamed in anger. Blades and halberd shafts fell to the ground, cut in half by the deadly plasma cutting a swath through the wall. At last the assault came to a stop and Vathamma lowered the lightsaber, opening her eyes to look at the scorched burn marks crisscrossing the ruined wall.

 _I could have died._

Trandoshans, Mandalorians, a collapsing temple—none of that was supposed to have happened. What should have been an easy trek through the jungle had turned into a chaotic nightmare that had threatened everything she had planned. She should have made the cure _before_ they had left, just in case—she'd always known how, after all. What if she had had been unable to find the Mandalorian's communication array and call for a pickup? What if they had remained marooned on that jungle rock and succumbed to the poison?

Fear and anger flared in her chest, and she raised her blade again, only to stop as the bit of antique weaponry fell from the wall. With a huff she turned off her saber and hung it at her side, then walked over to the meditation platform in the center of the room and sat down with crossed legs.

Things had worked out as planned, but only through sheer dumb luck—this had been too close of a call. Three attempts had been made on her life, _all_ of which had come frighteningly close to succeeding.

Something needed to be done—and she already knew who was responsible.


	10. Out With The Old

"Will you support my move again Darth Dominus?"

Lord Andar leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers while Vathamma awaited his answer.

"No," he stated flatly after a moment of tense silence.

"He tried to _kill_ me," she shouted, rising from her chair. "He probably hoped to kill _you_ as well, at my dinner party." She paced around the office, the seated Sith watching her calmly. Truthfully, Vathamma had no idea if Dominus wanted Andar dead—but coalition-building merited some slight exaggeration.

"I'm aware of that." He tilted forward in his chair and leaned on the desk. The blinds were drawn halfway down, blocking much of Balmorra's daylight from entering the office and adding to the conspiratorial air of the room. "But you and I, by ourselves, are in no position to unseat him. He simply has too much support... even among the Dark Council."

"Then what am I to do? Endure more of these attempts on my life until one succeeds?"

"He is lashing out because he is _afraid_ of you," Andar stressed, unfolding his hands. "Your seemingly-inept apprentice baited his into a duel, then unexpectedly killed him. You continue to expand your business dealings in a way that insulates you from his whims."

"My apprentice's victory _was_ unexpected," she shot back. "And I broaden my investments _because_ of Dominus' hostility."

The other Sith shrugged. "I only seek to explain how he may see things."

"And your suggestion _is?"_

" _Meet_ with him—explain that your ambition does not extend to his station. Make him understand that he has nothing to fear... without explicitly saying as much."

Vathamma stopped pacing and sat back down opposite him. She stroked her chin with her hand, as she tended to do when she became engrossed in thought.

"I suppose going to him is no more dangerous than staying here. If he were willing to risk killing me aboard his ship, he could simply summon me there."

"Precisely."

"And if he _sees_ my neophyte apprentice..."

Andar shook his head. "That's a poor idea. He will think that you are rubbing his apprentice's defeat in his face."

"And if I don't bring him?" She replied. "A Sith Master seeking parlay without her apprentice? It would look as if I'm stashing him away for some nefarious purpose."

The man opened his mouth as if to object further, but stopped. "If you think that's wise."

"I do." The woman rose from her chair once again. "I will, however, take the rest of what you've said under advisement."

He gave her a small bow of the head as she she turned around and left the room. The door shut and he pressed a button on the desk to open the blinds behind him, then swiveled the chair about and looked out onto the Sobrik skyline.

 _One can't always get what one wants._

* * *

"Peace is a lie."

Torin could hear his Master's footsteps as she circled around him. Not only that—the call of birds and rustle of trees in the courtyard garden, the blare of car horns and shouts of passerbyers in the street far below. Closing one's eyes didn't shut out the world, as he had expected—it amplified it to a distracting degree. His eyes fluttered open as he uttered the mantra she had taught him, repeating it over and over until the words had lost all meaning.

"There is only passion."

Vathamma circled like a shark, mouthing the words in a silent echo as she tapped her sword on the stone ground.

"Through passion I gain stre—" A pained hiss interrupted his repetitive drone. His master pulled back the flat of her sword from his shoulder, leaving behind a nasty welt beneath his shirt. With a deep breath and a curling lip he steadied his nerves, then continued.

"Through strength I gain pow—" Another strike, this time to his other shoulder.

His eyelids shook as he struggled to keep them closed. "Are you going to keep hitting me?"

A quiet hum of acknowledgement came from behind him. "Until you say it right."

"I've been saying it _right_ for the last hour."

" _Babies_ can sit and babble." The tip of her sword prodded him in the chest. "I want to know that you mean it."

"It'd be easier if—" the blade pressed through his shirt hard enough to draw blood, and he shot up from his meditative pose, wrapping his hand around her own on the hilt of the sword.

"That's more like it." She met his snarling face with a smile. "It's not _supposed_ to be easy—life itself is struggle." Her open palm moved in front of his stomach, and she threw him across the courtyard with a blast of force. His back struck a statue with a sharp _crack._ He pushed himself to his knees and prayed that the sound he heard had come from the stone.

"If sitting were all there was to it, you'd be better off with them as your Masters." She gestured at the stone statues of meditating Sith surrounding the garden courtyard.

"What do you want me to do?" Arms held out to his side, he looked at her in exasperation. "I'm not _like_ these people." He gestured at the statues, human and Sith alike. "I'm not some vicious tyrant."

"Do you think Sith draw their power from sadism?"

He met her question with uncertain silence.

"You told me before that you wanted to go home. How did you live your life there?

He shrugged. "I just did my thing."

"You _'just did your thing'_." She laughed. "Taking each day as it's own, leaving tomorrow's worries for tomorrow?"

Torin nodded noncommittally.

"That isn't life. That is a slow death."

His hand pressed against the statue's knee as he rose to his feet.

"What do _you_ know about life? All you do is kill!"

"And in doing so, earn my own life. Don't you tire of playing the victim?"

His fists clenched angrily. "I told you before, I _am_ — _"_

"Yes, yes. _I_ kidnapped you, _I_ almost got you killed. Tell me, what do you think would have happened to you if we hadn't met?"

Red skies, orbital bombardment, falling skyscrapers, plazas full of dead men just like him. In a thousand alternate realities, he'd died on that planet in a thousand different ways.

"I'm not asking you to _like_ what I did. I'm asking you to _accept_ life's ugliness. Take power over your own fate. Can you do that?"

Muscles hung slack from hours of sitting, and bones ached from being tossed around like a rag doll. But more than being exhausted, he was tired. Tired of being a kite caught in whatever storm came his way. The hand clutching his side fell away and he walked towards the center of the courtyard where his Master tapped her sword, then sat down and closed his eyes.

"Start again."

* * *

"All your scars are gone..." Nomi ran a hand over Torin's back, feeling the smooth, unblemished skin. He'd become reluctant to let her tend to his wounds as his body had gradually become overtaken by scar tissue, but that concern had evaporated along with the painful reminders of Vathamma's training. All except for the new welts on his shoulders and his cracked ribs. They ached deeply, and he gave it two weeks of her training before his body was back to its former state of general over-scarred quality.

Ever the professional, Nomi's hands went to the med kit beside where she knelt on his bed, removing the med gel tube and slathering it on his shoulders. A shiver ran down his back, as much from the sensation of her touch as the coolness of the sticky gel. Every time she touched him, his heartbeat quickened and his stomach did a flip.

"Maybe she's not so bad," he said, only to met with silence. He cocked his head back to see Nomi throwing him confused glances as she busied herself rubbing the gel into his wounds. "Vathamma, I mean. She healed me—that's why all my scars are gone. That's why I'm _alive."_

The Togruta raised an eyebrow doubtfully at the mention of healing. "I am surprised to hear you say that, Master."

They'd spoken enough for him to know that was as close as she'd get to outright disagreement.

"I know she's not a good person, but it's this _place,_ the whole Empire—it makes you do things you wouldn't normally do." His words were as much a defense of himself as they were of his Master. He was a fundamentally good person—he liked to think so, at least—yet he'd seen the effects of Sith society's influence on himself, and he'd only been among them a relatively short time. What if someone were born in that, grew up in it? What chance could they possibly have to wind up good? And if they _did,_ would they even live to tell of it?

"Oww!" He winced as Nomi ground her knuckles into his still-tender side. "What was that for?"

"Apologies, Master." The med kit clicked shut behind him, and two warm hands rested against the flat of his back. "You should leave this place. I fear what it might do to you."

It was the same thing he'd told _her_ half a dozen times, always to be met with the same vague refusal.

"Will you come with me?"

A head pressed against his back between the two hands and he felt the Togruta shake it from side to side in a silent 'no'.

"Then I don't know why we're talking about this." Her hands fell away as he rose from the bed. The tight neckline of his undershirt slid over his head and he turned back to look at her. "Did I tell you how close I came to dying before our Master brought me here?"

She shook her head.

" _Literally_ this close." Their eyes met between the inch of space formed by his index finger and thumb. "If I hadn't used the Force, she'd have killed me."

"And you think it is... _fate_ that she didn't?"

He tilted his chin back as he straightened his messy hair out in the mirror on the wall, brushing it back from his forehead. "It's not about fate. It's about opportunity. If I had died on Uracco, maybe _ten_ people back home would have noticed—only half of them would have cared. All because some old Senators wanted to retake a planet I've never heard of. Now, I have a chance to _be_ somebody."

He turned away from the mirror and lifted her off of the bed by her hands. "To _have_ somebody."

A chirp from his wrist drew both of their eyes towards the communicator. He hung his head in exasperation, then let go of her hands and answered the call.

"Come to my quarters."

More lessons with his Master after Nomi had just finished with the first aid? That _was_ part of her job, but he still felt guilty about wasting the Togruta's time.

"I'll be right there," he replied, lowering his hand only for the bracelet to chirp again.

"Is Nomi with you?"

"Ah..." he stared at her uncertainly.

"Yes, Mistress." Torin grimaced at the alien's total lack of hesitation.

"Pack his things, Nomi—and yours, too."

* * *

"That's the Dominator _."_ Vathamma didn't need to point for Torin to figure out she was talking about. A lone ship hung in geosynchronous orbit directly ahead of them, a massive destroyer that looked more like a battlestation than a starship.

"The _Dominator?"_ Torin snorted.

"Yes."

"Darth _Dominus'_ flagship is called the _Dominator."_ A smirk spread across his face as he leaned forward in the co-pilot's chair.

" _Yes,"_ she hissed, shooting him a look as she continued working the shuttle's control console. "And?"

"Never mind."

His smile disappeared as they neared the flagship, and it became clear that the vessel had earned its name. Fighter bays lined both sides, separated by laser cannons that sat ready to unleash hell on whatever unfortunate opponent found itself on the wrong side of the destroyer. The front half of the ship split into two horizontal structures the size of buildings, like jaws waiting to devour their shuttle as Vathamma piloted them into the central docking bay.

With most of the fighters out on patrol, the hangar was largely empty. A lone guard sat in a windowed control tower in the corner of the bay, the only living soul in sight until the force field behind them re-activated and a door on the other end of the room opened. A woman approached them with hands clasped behind her back, the smartly-dressed Officer moving at a brisk pace to meet the trio as they descended the ramp. She had to have been well over six feet tall, her broad shoulders and thick arms straining the black fabric of her uniform. Beneath her cap he could see that one side of her head was shaved, and that her short red hair hung loosely over the bald strip of skin.

 _I can't believe that's regulation._

As she got closer he noticed that the side of her head was badly burned. His gaze snapped away from the grisly sight, only to find the woman's green eyes narrowed at him in disdain. She stopped in front of the ramp and turned to his Master.

"Lady Vathamma." She bowed, keeping her eyes fixed on the Sith even as her head moved towards the floor. "Please, follow me."

Vathamma turned to the Togruta behind her. "Keep the ship ready."

"Actually—" the Officer looked at Nomi. "Darth Dominus specifically requested you bring the slave whose carelessness led to his apprentice's death."

Nomi's eyes darted from Torin to her master and she pointed a shaky finger at her chest.

"Very well," her master said, then followed the larger woman to the doorway at the far end of the hangar. Torin waited until the Togruta began moving as well, then led up the rear. They entered a hallway that ran down the center of the ship, numerous passageways intersecting it and leading off to other sections of the destroyer. Despite the size, it was shockingly empty. Torin spotted a handful of maintenance droids down the branching corridors they passed, but it was a mere skeleton crew for what was a veritable city in space.

He sped up to comment on the strange emptiness to Vathamma, but slowed down again when he saw the trembling Togruta plodding along behind her. With one hand she clutched her other arm, wiggling her fingers nervously. Torin grabbed her hand and squeezed it, neither one looking at the other. Each step reminded him of the weapon in his boot—an extendable blade Vathamma had given him, easily concealable. _'Just in case,'_ she had said. He'd half a mind to yank it out and toss it down one of the corridors they passed when the Officer leading them had her head turned. There was no 'just in case' when meeting a Sith Lord aboard his own floating fortress. If he wanted them dead, they were dead.

Nomi's hand squeezed back, and he gave her a thankful look from the corner of his eye before letting her hand go.

"Have you served with Darth Dominus long?" The Sith asked the woman leading them, only to be met with a brief grunt of acknowledgement.

"Alright, then..." They stopped at a pair of doors that led to the bridge, and whatever judgement awaited them.

The doors slid open, revealing the bridge—and the man they were meeting. Everything about the setup of the room seemed designed to draw their eyes to him, like a theater stage. A short walkway flanked by consoles and screens led to a wide stairway, which itself led to a raised platform spanning the width of the bridge. In the center was a command chair—or a throne—facing the windows behind it. The chair spun around as they approached, revealing a figure seated with steepled fingers. He wore heavy armor that gave him the illusion of being much bigger than he was, and his purple robe hung down to the floor. An intricately-carved ritual mask stared down the trio as they knelt at the base of the stairs.

"Darth Dominus," Vathamma greeted him. "This meeting is overdue."

Silence.

She coughed, and gestured to the young man beside her. "I have brought my apprentice, Torin Val. I hope to explain what has become a _grave_ misunderstanding..."

The seated man maintained his unbroken gaze as the kneeling Sith's eyes darted back and forth, awaiting a response.

"We cannot come to an understanding if you will not _speak,_ my Lord."

The hum of computers was the only sound on the bridge. After a few moments, her barely contained frustration boiled over and she shot to her feet.

"Have you finally gone _senile?"_ She shouted, marching up the staircase. "I'm _speaking_ to you!" She leaned her hands on the armrests of his chair, then jumped back as the Sith slumped over in his seat, head rolling from side to side. The mask fell from his face, clattering to the floor and revealing the pale visage and still eyes of a dead man. Behind Torin and Nomi, a forcefield formed across the bridge, separating the room in half. On the other side stood the Imperial Officer.

"What is this?" Vathamma shouted at her, marching back down the steps.

"This is payback for droppin' a _temple_ on me." Her sharp Imperial accent had disappeared, replaced by a casual drawl.

The Sith unsheathed her lightsaber and slashed at the field ineffectively.

"You're not gettin' outta there." the woman replied. She tossed aside her cap and rolled up her sleeve, then began pressing buttons on a wristband communicator. "It's supposed to stop pretty much anything from gettin' _in_ —works the other way too, of course."

"Explain yourself!" Vathamma stowed her lightsaber and stared down the woman angrily.

"I'll let the other guy do that. I don't get paid unless I do this bit." With one last tap on her wrist, a hologram appeared over the computer embedded in the armrest of Dominus' chair.

"Lady Vathamma," the orange-skinned Sith said. "I've been waiting a long time for this."

"Lord Andar..." Her face hardened. "I wish I could say this was a surprise."

"Surely it _must_ be, otherwise you wouldn't have taken the bait."

"Why?" She asked simply.

"Because I _could_. Because you and Dominus are relics—" He glanced at the ancient Sith's crumpled body on the floor. "—in more ways than one."

"Have you gone _mad?_ You'll never—"

"Get away with this?" He interrupted her. "Actually, I will. I've already discussed the matter with the appropriate Lords. With no apprentice left to inherit, Dominus' Balmorran holdings will fall to me. As will your contracts and meager estate."

She laughed. "This isn't a power play, this is treason! The Dark Council will flay you alive."

"No, they won't. Why would they? Darth Dominus was murdered by a Republic strike team whose arrival coincided with your own—they'll find your ship _and_ theirs in the wreckage."

"That's absurd! Imperial Intelligence will figure out what happened."

Andar's image grew smaller as he leaned back in his chair. "Perhaps. But by then, it won't matter."

"My sister!" Came the shout beside Torin. He looked in surprise to see the Togruta staring up at Lord Andar with pleading eyes. "You promised—"

"I'm a man of my word," he said, cutting her short. "Your sister will go free. Unfortunately, you know too much. As does your apprentice, Vathamma."

He turned to face the young man, his brow furrowing thoughtfully. Torin thought he could see genuine disappointment in the holographic image.

"I had hoped to convince her to leave you behind on Balmorra. I could have taken you on as my apprentice—we would have gotten along famously."

Behind Torin and Nomi, the Mandalorian was growing impatient. "You done yet?"

Giving one last look at the imprisoned trio, he sighed and nodded at the mercenary. "Do it."

With the press of a button, the woman triggered a series of detonations that rocked the ship, staggering Torin as the ship's lights flickered off, replaced with the faint red glow of emergency lighting running along the ceilings and floors. A siren blared, and out the window in the front of the bridge he could see the planet moving ever so slightly further into view.

The ship was falling.

"Vathamma—you were right about one thing."

Outside the bridge, ships began to come into view, dropping out of hyperspace in rigid formation. A Republic cruiser spun in space, bringing its cannons to bear on the disabled destroyer as strike craft descended on them.

"The Mandalorian's plan always felt a bit messy, and she knows too much as well. So I thought: why not the real thing?"

Laser cannon fire strafed the hull of the destroyer, making the trio stumble. The Mandalorian looked out the window in a panic, then spun around.

"Fucking _Sith!"_ She muttered as she sprinted through the doorway leading back towards the central hangar.

"A few well-placed leaks was all it took—" Lord Andar's self-congratulatory monologue was cut short as an explosion ripped through the side wall of the bridge, taking the forcefield down with it.

Vathamma shoved aside Torin and ran towards the door. "Were getting out of here."

The other two followed, then stopped when the Sith spun around and shoved the Togruta back with a blow to the chest. "Did you think that meant _you?"_

Torin grabbed her wrist. "Enough!" He could barely hear himself over the siren and the groans of the ship being torn apart. "Well talk about this later."

She yanked her hand from his grip and stomped through the doorway. Far ahead of them, a blast ripped through the main hallway, twisted metal wreckage blocking the way to the hangar as the floor above caved in. Vathamma backtracked to a panel on the wall, and Torin watched as she manipulated a live diagram of the ship. Section after section flashed red, the monitoring system struggling to keep up with the sheer totality of the damage incurred by the Destroyer.

"The hangar is gone."

"What do you mean _gone?"_

"I mean it's _gone,"_ she repeated, gesturing down the hallway at the flaming wreckage filling the central corridor. "The escape pods..." She pulled up a small stretch of hallway showing four intact pods on the side of the ship currently directed at the planet.

"Will they even launch?" Torin looked up and down the dark hallway lit only by emergency lighting and the occasional fire. "There's no power!"

"No, but they can still _fall."_ She pointed at an area near the engineering section. "I'll find a way to open the pod bay doors—you'll need to turn off the repulsors keeping the ship upright."

"Turn them _off?"_ His eyes ran over the ship diagram, memorizing the route.

"We need to tilt the ship further so that gravity can do its job when we release the pods." She moved to give him a push towards his destination, but he grabbed her wrist and brought his face close to hers.

"I'm not getting in that pod unless I see her on it." His eyes flickered towards the panicked Togruta standing off to the side. Vathamma yanked her hand free, and the two ran towards their respective destinations.

Turned out there was a reason ships like the _Dominator_ ever entered the atmosphere. The hull creaked and groaned, protesting against the gravitational forces pulling the ship apart with increasing strength as it neared the planet. He entered a passage running along the ship's exterior, passing window after window with a front row view of what awaited them all if they didn't leave in a hurry. Still in full sprint, he barreled through the half-open doorway before him without stopping—until he saw what lie within.

"My God..."

A room filled with monitoring equipment and arrays of levers and buttons surrounding computer screens, just as expected. What stood out was the pile of bodies in the center of the room, uniformed Imperial engineers and soldiers laid on top of each other in a heap. Was this what had happened to _all_ of the ship personnel?

Stifling the nausea rising in his belly, he tore his eyes away from the grisly sight and examined the switchboards on the walls as he circled the room. He came to a series of levers below a display depicting the half-functional repulsor system. It couldn't keep the ship from being pulled to the ground, but it was the only thing keeping them upright. With a deep breath he steeled himself and pulled down on the handle controlling the Port side array.

The effect was immediate. The bodies behind him slid to the left side of the room, and the entire ship began a slow roll. Torin leaned up against the wall, but was quickly forced to crawl, then walk onto it as what was once the left side of the ship became the ground on which he walked. He ran back towards the door, scrambling through the sideways frame and running back up the hall. The windows he'd passed a short time ago were now below him, cracked glass letting him know that he'd end up with one foot in space if he dared step on one.

A doorway he had to force himself through, then a sharp turn and a jog back towards the core of the ship, then an intersection—he stopped and looked around, struggling to remember which of the darkened hallways led to the escape pods. The ship diagram Vathamma had pulled up might as well have been a maze—it was sheer luck that he'd managed to reach the engineering section in the first place.

The door at the end of the hall opened, smoke spilling out as Torin drew his sword from his boot, the blade unfolding with a series of clicks as individual metal sections extended from the hilt to form a single cohesive edge. Two soldiers in battle-scarred white armor clambered through the frame and knelt down on either side of the hall, rifles pointed at Torin. He held a hand out towards them, preparing for a hail of blaster fire.

After the soldiers had taken their positions, one last figure stepped through the mist, hopping gracefully over the edge of the doorway. A woman, olive-skinned with short brown hair faded with age and swept over her forehead. She wore a brown tunic and pants with red sleeves and golden lining, her waist wrapped in a yellow sash. The green lightsaber in her hand burned from both ends of the handle, a quarterstaff of heat and light. The front half traced a burning path along the ground as she walked, and the rear blade nearly scraped the ceiling.

 _A Jedi Knight._

A smile spread across his face as he watched the woman walk towards him.

"I will handle the Sith," she said to the soldiers as she passed them. They nodded and separated, moving down the halls on either side of the doorway while their leader maintained her unwavering approach.

 _She thinks I'm Sith._

The corners of his mouth turned downward as he realised this woman—this _Jedi knight_ —was fully intent on fighting him. He brought his sword down just in time to block her upward swing, the Cortosis blade in his hand heating up as her lightsaber pressed against the metal. He had no idea how long a weapon like his could withstand her blows, and a duel with a Jedi Knight seemed like a poor time for a trial run of the lightsaber-resistant metal.

"Wait!" He exclaimed, trying to hold the front end of her staff down. "I'm not your enemy!"

The woman flung her saber up with both hands, staggering him backwards. "Is that all you have? Words?" She thrust forward and he moved aside, then brought his blade in front of him to block her sideways swing. She shifted in front of him, pressing him to the wall as plasma sizzled against metal.

"I thought Sith were men of action?" She rotated her blade against his own, driving the left side at his shoulder as the right continued to hold him to the wall. Torin dodged to the side, sliding out of the way as the lightsaber cut a path through the ship. The woman spun with the momentum of her swing, moving with the grace of a dancer. As he stumbled his sword was ripped from his loosened grip, pulled by the woman's outstretched hand and flung down the hall behind her. He glanced in shock at his empty hands before turning them back towards her just in time to halt the thrust of her lightsaber at his chest. Nearly invisible waves of force pulsed in the air in front of him, barely holding back the green tip of the lightsaber that burned inches away. The two opponents leaned into each other with gritted teeth, each seeking to overcome the other. With a forceful push Torin extended the unseen field of force, flinging the Jedi down the passageway.

She slid to a stop, then propped herself up by her elbows and stared at him in shock.

"Torin?"

He lowered his hands, returning her stare with a look of confusion. "Huh?"

An explosion tore through the wall between them. Torin grasped at the wall frantically as air rushed from the room, pulling him along with it. His hand found purchase on a small ridge and he tried to pull himself back towards the sealed doorway.

It was impossible. The pull of the vacuum was too strong, and he was too weak. Just as he felt his sweaty fingers loosening and any hope of reaching the exit slipping away, the door opened and Vathamma slid into the room, nearly being sucked out with him as she slapped at a control panel on the wall. The roar of air stopped and both Master and Apprentice fell to the floor as a forcefield formed on either side of the hull breach.

"The pods are ready!" He heard her over the ringing in his ears, but his focus was on the woman standing on the other side of two force fields and twenty feet of shredded Imperial Destroyer.

"She said my name..."

The swirling mass of questions in his mind disappeared, cut clear through by the sharp sound of metal shearing from metal. The planet below them came into view through the breech, and Torin felt as if he might be pulled out towards it. He ran after Vathamma, taking one last look at the Jedi before the door closed behind them.

The other sections of the _Dominator_ had fared no better than the passage they had just fled. The Mandalorian's sabotage, Republic cannon fire, and the gravity of the planet below them tore at the ship in all directions, creating new breeches and sending steam and shrapnel shooting at the Sith and her Apprentice as they ran down corridor after corridor towards the escape pods, slamming into hallway corners in their mad dash to escape the disintegrating ship.

Ahead of them, a red-skinned face with blue-and-white tentacles peaked out around a corner in the row of pods, waving them towards it before pulling back in. Vathamma grabbed the handles on the door and slid into the cramped space, followed by her Apprentice. The door shut behind them as they buckled into their seats and the Sith pulled down on a lever, releasing the clamps holding them to the doomed destroyer. With a screech the pod slid out of the chute, falling away from the _Dominator_ as it began its rapid descent towards the planet's surface.

* * *

Lord Andar stood in front of the metal bookcase set against his office wall, fingers running over the dusty spines of old books. They stopped here and there, tilting back on volumes that were a bit less decrepit than their shelf mates. He pulled back on the sixth such book, then slid it back in and waited. A low rumble came, and the bookcase slid along the ceramic floor, revealing a small windowless room. At the center sat a video communicator, a larger version of the one at his desk. He stepped inside and the bookcase slid shut behind him, shutting out the natural light coming from his office windows and leaving only the orange glow emanating from the inactive communicator.

The Sith pressed a button on the projector, then knelt down in front of it. After a few moments a figure materialized over the machine. A mountain of a man, his pale face and sunken yellow eyes barely visible beneath his hood and the respirator covering the lower half of his face. His suit was half armor and half life support, as much a part of him as the fearsome aura he projected. Even across the vastness of space the kneeling Sith could feel it, an enormity of presence that dominated everything it came into contact with—pure _will._

"My Lord. Balmorra's armament factories are yours."

"Is production ready to begin?" His deep voice echoed in the chamber, making the small room feel very large.

"Yes. Most of the requisite materials are being routed through existing Imperial supply chains. The rest, I have seen too personally."

"Good. I am putting a great deal of faith in you."

His words carried the weight of responsibility born of the immensity of the purpose he had shared with Andar. Some men commanded respect because of what they had done, others simply because that was the sort of man they were. The Sith standing before him was both.

"I will not disappoint, _Emperor_ Malgus."

The comm link cut out, and Andar returned to his office. He had devoted so much time and effort to the plan, destroyed so many people. Lords, apprentices, slaves, all sacrificed on the altar of progress. Now, the time had come to build the foundation on their bodies.

The foundation of a new Empire.


	11. A Fistful Of Sand

The sun shone brightly overhead, filtered through the gently swaying branches of the tree above him and forming a corona of light around the head of the woman leaning over his face. Leaves left the branches, pulled off by the gentle fall wind and carried overhead in swirling eddies of air that rustled the woman's short hair. Torin couldn't make out her face, but he thought he recognized her. Not just her, but this place—this feeling. The woman leaned forward, planting a kiss on his forehead. Indistinct images and vague sensations coalesced into concrete reality as he awoke and his senses returned.

Sand tore through the air , ripping past the metal framework hanging above him and rattling the steel skeleton. A bird-like face tapped at his forehead with its beak, feathered neck flaring aggressively as Torin's eyes shot wide open.

"Ah!" He scrambled to his feet, swatting at the animal looming over him. With a panicked screech it skittered off on all fours, quickly disappearing from sight into the rolling mounds of red dirt surrounding the crashed pod buried in a pile of rusted gravel. Over the roar and whistle of wind he heard shouts. His raised arm did little to block the sand that stung his face and wormed its way into every wrinkle and fold of his clothing. Partially obscured by the orange haze were two figures grappling with each other, their incomprehensible shouts barely audible over the wind's roar.

"After _everything_ I've done for you!" Vathamma came into view first as Torin scrambled across the uneven terrain. She spun around to reveal her fists wound up in Nomi's shirt. "I took you in! Fed you, clothed you!"

Nomi yanked on the Sith's black hair, drawing an angry scream. "I am not your slave _anymore!"_

Her former Mistress wrapped her hands around the Togruta's neck and pushed her into the rusted earth. Torin raced over and pulled Vathamma off of her, Master and Apprentice falling backwards while the other woman rolled onto all fours and gasped for air.

"Let me go!" Elbows shot out, striking the ground on either side of his head. "I'll kill her!"

"That's why I'm—" A blow to the face made him release his grip. He clutched his aching nose while the Sith scrambled to her feet.

"She _betrayed_ me!" She screeched at him, pointing towards her slave. Torin walked over to a curved scrap of escape pod hull jutting from the ground and sat down on it, holding his head in his hands.

"That woman, she _knew_ me. I don't know how, but she did. They're going to think I'm a Sith!" The prospect of a rescue had grown more and more remote during his time on Balmorra, but his brief encounter with the Jedi had sealed his fate. No Republic force would come for him—and if they did, it would not be on friendly terms.

"You _are_ Sith," Vathamma said. "Focus on something important, like getting your Master off of this horrid planet." Her hands hardened into fists that shook at her sides. "I will tear Andar in _half."_

Only Nomi remained calm. Exhausted, yes, but calm—almost peaceful. Her face was tilted towards the sky, eyes flickering open and closed to blink out the sand.

"Did that crash rattle your little brain?" The Togruta's lack of concern only made Vathamma angrier. "Do you understand that we're _stranded?"_

Not a hint of fear showed on Nomi's face. "My sister will be safe. I do not care what happens to me."

Vathamma shot forward. "I'm glad to hear that!" Her raised hand sparked, little blue bolts of electricity jumping from one finger to the other.

Torin slid between the two and held out his hands, not daring to lay them on the Sith. "Let's not tear each other's throats out _now,_ alright?" He pointed at the smoldering wreckage of the _Dominator_ visible past a long line of hills. "We should get there before someone else does."

"You're right. I'm sure she'll have a fine story to tell to the Inquisitors." His Master lowered her hand, meeting her former slave's glower with a fake smile. "You can stand trial with Lord Andar. I'll enjoy watching you perish in front of an Imperial firing squad."

She began descending the slope leading towards the wreckage, picking up her robe as she shuffled downward. Torin waited for Nomi to stand to her feet, then began the tricky descent as well. The Togruta sped up and walked alongside him, neither one saying a word as they crossed hill after hill and entered a stretch of rusted badlands that seemed to go on forever on either side. Torin felt a hand touch his own and he yanked his arm away, speeding up to continue the trek in silence. The sand and wind stopped harassing them, and they soon discovered that the fine orange haze had been the one thing keeping the fiery star above from beating them down into the dirt with the full force of its heat.

The _Dominator,_ which had seemed so close a short time ago, grew further from them even as the sun dipped towards the towering remnants of hull and engine jutting out of the ground. With the light directly ahead, Torin fell into the habit of keeping his eyes fixed on the ground, watching the winding fissures of dried mud pass below as he put one foot in front of the other, glancing up occasionally to check on the excruciatingly slow progress towards their destination. Ahead of him, Vathamma pulled off her robe while she walked. Wiry muscles contracted under bare red skin as she reached up and wound the cloth around her head. She glanced back at him and his eyes darted to the ground, remaining fixed there until he heard her shouting.

A bird with mottled brown plumage and a long, curving beak had perched atop the Sith's head, claws dug into the makeshift turban. She swatted at it, driving the animal away—along with her robe. The bird flew off into the wastes, black cloth flapping in the breeze behind it.

"I _hate_ this planet!" She fell to her knees, pounding the ground with her fists while the other two watched her uneasily.

"Do you hear that?" Nomi said behind him. Torin gestured at his throat with a flattened hand and pointed at Vathamma, urging the Togruta to let his Master's tantrum run its course.

"No, ahead of us." She pointed at the wreckage, and the Sith grew quiet. Over the crackle of the desert heat they could hear it—the faint roar of machinery coming from somewhere within the wreckage of the Imperial ship. They were out in the open, exposed—one of them quite literally—and without any weapons besides the Sith's single lightsaber. They ran, lungs burning and feet pounding against clay until they had reached the edge of the scrapyard and assumed a position behind a piece of hull large enough to provide cover for the trio.

Three alien figures stood gathered around a land speeder. A fourth knelt beside what looked to be a drop pod, the creature's face covered by a welding mask and a blow torch in his hands. The pod was far smaller than the one Torin had escaped in, only large enough for a single person and meant to be used for the quick orbital deployment of troops. Through a pane of glass on the front of the dark gray pod he could just barely make out its occupant. He quickly recognized the brutish face and red hair of the woman shouting obscenities at the alien attempting to break into her pod.

"Duros. Four of them," he said. The blue-skinned aliens had large, bald heads and bug-like eyes that scanned the remains of the destroyer, though it wasn't clear what exactly they were looking for.

"I want to speak with that woman." Vathamma moved as if to approach them, but Torin gently pulled her back.

"Wait, what's the plan here?"

"Plan?" She scoffed. "We kill them."

"You can't just _kill_ them! They're scavengers, not soldiers." Their hands were empty, though the ratty beige cloaks hanging over their bodies left plenty of room for nasty surprises. "Let me try talking to them first. Maybe I can convince them to hand her over."

"Can you even _speak_ Duros? Those horrid creatures never know Basic."

"I can." The two turned to Nomi, who was wringing her hands together anxiously. "I can speak Duros."

Torin turned back to Vathamma. "Well alright, then."

With a wave to Nomi he ducked out from behind the makeshift wall. The four Duros spotted the pair and gathered in front of the speeder, eyes darting around nervously as they sized up the newcomers.

"Hello, there!" He shouted, hands held high and palms open in the universal sign of peace. That, and the strained smile plastered across his face, would hopefully start the two groups off on the right foot. And if it didn't, well...

There was always the Sith lurking to their rear.

The imprisoned Mandalorian eyed the approaching pair with mild interest. Even through the glass, the desert heat looked to have gotten to her. Red hair was matted to her sweat-stained forehead, and her nose had already begun to peel.

"They ask who you are," Nomi said, translating for the Duros that had tossed aside his metal mask and plasma torch. He was shorter than the others, the sole distinguishing feature among what might as well have been four identical clones. Was it this hard for them to tell humans apart?

"Tell them I'm Sith, and that they're holding my first lieutenant." He pointed at the Mandalorian.

Doubtful stares and hushed chatter told him that they weren't buying it. With one hand raised he willed the idle speeder to buckle beneath the weight of the Force flowing through him.

Nothing.

The Duros stared awkwardly at his raised hand, looking just as confused as him until an unseen force jostled the speeder, rattling its metal innards. The startled aliens jumped away from it and chattered among themselves while Torin lowered his hand. Thankfully, his Master had a more reliable command of the Force.

"They say... they say that they are businessmen, and cannot give a valuable find away for free." She swallowed. "But they are willing to trade."

The short one pointed to the mercenary.

"They say this one is too big to fetch a good price on the market. She is only good for labor." The mercenary raised an eyebrow at the offhanded insult. "But that one..." He nodded at the Togruta. "They can surely find a buyer for her—"

Nomi stopped translating when the Duros' speech turned into halting gasps. He clutched at his throat, his panicked brethren looking from their leader to the furious man holding a single hand towards the group. Torin smashed his fist tight, caving in the alien's windpipe.

The two Duros on either side of the dead alien rose from the ground, holding their throats as invisible hands lifted them off their feet. On the far left, the remaining Duros drew a blaster from under his cloak, but his hand stopped mid-draw. Vathamma walked down from the dune, hand held in front of her to keep the alien frozen in place while his friends choked to death beside him.

Torin threw his hands downward, smashing the two Duros' lifeless bodies into the ground and sending up a cloud of red dust. The fourth scavenger's hand tugged at his frozen arm, trying desperately to free his weapon from the unseen force keeping it held to his side.

Eyes looked back at him in fear that intensified as the distance between angered apprentice and hapless scavenger grew smaller. His hands slid over the Duros' neck, and he stopped.

How much fear had this alien caused? How many had he beaten, enslaved, sold like _things?_ Now he was vulnerable, helpless to act. Torin could see the fear. That subtle tremble running down his shoulders, the rapid beat of his heart, the uneasy rise and fall of his chest. More than that, he could _feel_ it. A quivering aura that wound its way through and around Torin. It was nauseating, unsettling, but it was also _seductive._ He was finally in a position to make this slaver experience a fraction of the pain and suffering he'd inflicted on others.

Torin's hand moved down to the Duros' blaster, and he yanked it free from the alien's rigid grasp, then stepped away from the bug-eyed face regarding him with abject fear.

"Ask him where they were going."

The frozen alien jerked his head to the side, motioning off into the distance. "He says that there is an outpost to the east, a small trading enclave. The coordinates are programmed into the speeder."

"Tell him 'thanks'," he said to the Togruta, then fired a blaster shot into the Duros' gut. Nomi jumped back at the sudden sound and Vathamma lowered her hand, letting the dead body fall to the ground next to its three comrades.

"Isn't it so much better to act without hesitation?" The Sith put her hands on his arms and rested her chin on his shoulder. "Did it feel good to take a life by choice?"

"No." He shook off the devil whispering in his ear and looked at the ground. The wind had already begun to pile sand up against the sides of the bodies, burying the evidence of their crimes. He didn't regret killing the four, but had at least expected to be shaken by the brutality he'd unleashed in a fit of anger. Yet the knowledge that he'd just taken four lives didn't bother him one bit—and _that_ bothered him.

Approaching the drop pod buried a quarter way into the dirt, Torin stood on his toes and peered inside. A sun-kissed face stared back at him, red hair matted to her pale skin by sweat. Deep bags sat under her eyes, the sort of exhaustion born of restless years, not just one sleepless night. The Sith beside him knocked on the window pane. "How do we get you out of there?"

The woman inside sneered back. " _You_ don't. This things not opening unless I want it to."

A low rumble shook the ground beneath them and the pod jerked in place. Vathamma and her apprentice backed away as red silt slid towards the pod and under it, sucking it into the ground. The Mandalorian craned her head towards the window, looking around in surprise.

Yellow eyes rolled in their sockets. "That's fine, you can stay put." The Sith waved her hand slowly in front of her face, the other woman's eyes following it through the glass. "Tell me about Lord Andar's plans." Her voice was soothing, almost lyrical.

The Mandalorian stared blankly at her for a few moments, then her eye twitched and she smiled. "Neat trick, but I've had mental conditioning. You'd have better luck cracking this thing open," she said, kicking the inside of the metal container with her boot. Her head was now level with Torin's own, the ground having swallowed a noticeable portion of the container.

"Stay in there, then. You can try getting out once the ground has swallowed you whole."

The mercenary shrugged and a tense silence fell over the group, broken only by the soft scrape of sand against metal as the small prison was sucked deeper into the ground.

"Are you really going to do this?" Torin said, the woman now halfway in the ground.

"Depends on what you can offer me."

Vathamma scoffed. "What _we_ can offer _you?_ You're the one whose pod is about to become a coffin."

"And I'm the one who knows that Lord's dirty little secrets." The mercenary could tell that she had piqued the red woman's interest. "Last time I was on board his ship I took a data dump of his network."

She was more shrewd than she looked, Torin thought. "That seems kind of underhanded for a Mandalorian."

"Call it a force of habit," she replied. "I've been burned too many times."

Vathamma sighed. "Fine, I _won't_ kill you. In return, I want this supposed leverage you have."

"Uh-uh," the woman said, now up to her chest in quicksand. "That's not all. Andar has something of mine—that was part of his payment. I want _you_ to fulfill the contract."

"Don't tell me he has _your_ sister too," Torin said.

The woman smirked. "No, my sister's doing fine."

"Fine, fine," the Sith said. The pod was nearly completely swallowed up, yet she and Torin were showing more outward concern than the woman about to be buried alive. "You have a deal."

With a satisfied nod from the mercenary, the top flew off of the pod and smashed into the dirt behind it. She clambered out and stepped off the rim of the container just as it passed below the fine silt and rock flowing beneath her, moving with all the casualness of someone stepping off of a rowboat. Torin regarded her uneasily, his chest throbbing where she had stabbed him some time ago. The wound itself had been completely healed, but mental scars were not as quick to leave.

"Maliss," the woman said, hands on her hips. "Of Clan Vizla. I know you two already..." She looked from the Sith, to her apprentice, than to the Togruta. "I don't think we've met." With a smile that was all mouth and no eyes, she grinned at Nomi as she took her dainty hands in her own. The smaller woman was unable to shake the feeling that she was staring down a shark. Turning to Torin, the corners of her lips turned downward as she walked towards him, predatory green eyes fixed on his own.

"I'm still pissed about this." She tapped the burned patch of skin on the side of her head. "But I'm a professional. Water under the bridge." A meaty finger pressed against his chest where he had been stabbed by the woman, making him stumble backward.

Vathamma tapped her foot in the dirt. "You mentioned leverage. Where is it?"

"One thing at a time, missy," Maliss said. "It's safe. Let's get off this rock, then we'll talk."

The Sith bristled at the woman's attitude, but now wasn't the time or place to get what she wanted. Both women opened doors on either side of the speeder and slid into the back seat, maintaining a healthy distance between each other.

"Nomi, get the guns." The Togruta shot her Mistress a hostile look, but obeyed and pried three blasters off of the dead Duros, tossing them into the back between the Sith and Mandalorian before taking a seat up front beside Torin. He wiped off the red dust caked to the dashboard navigation computer. A simple topographical map showed their destination—whatever it was—as a blinking green dot. The path snaked through dunes and across stretches of flat land before curving around a sheer ridge.

"Do wake me when we get there." Vathamma closed her eyes and leaned her head back as the speeder croaked to life, exhaust and fumes billowing out of the back, filling the air with acrid smoke. With a fit of coughing Torin put the speeder in gear, and they were off.


	12. Crawl Before You Walk

"We're _here,"_ Torin said, pointing at the flashing green dot in the center of the nav computer. "We should be right on top of it." Cracked mud stretched out endlessly in all directions, meeting the darkening heavens on an ill-defined horizon that melded land and sky. There was no outpost, no enclave, no other signs of life. Only four exhausted wanderers in a speeder that had nearly run out of fuel, and a single flask of water that was just as empty.

"Terrific!" Vathamma exclaimed from the back seat of the speeder. "It must be an _invisible_ outpost. All we need to do is wait for the one hour a day in which it reveals itself."

They sat there in silence for a few moments, the wind howling and red dust swirling under the speeder.

"Or perhaps we need to say the magic phrase," she continued, her voice dripping with sarcasm. Torin threw up his hands in exasperation.

"I don't know what to tell you."

Nomi's brow furrowed in concern. "Could we go back to the destroyer and wait for rescue?"

The Sith chuckled. "Rescue from who, the Republic forces who shot us down? Or perhaps Lord Andar's men, come to finish the job this one started." She jerked her thumb at the Mandalorian, who watched the argument with a disinterested expression.

"Its a moot point, anyway." Torin tapped the fuel battery indicator. "Were running on fumes. We'd never make it back to the wreckage."

His Master laughed darkly and turned to the redheaded woman beside her.

"You look very calm considering you're in the same situation as the rest of us. Do you have any thoughts on this, or have you resigned yourself to death so soon?"

Maliss crossed her arms. "Here's my thoughts: I'm tired, I'm dirty, and I'm going to strangle someone if I have to listen to any more of this." She closed her eyes and leaned back, resting her head on the seat cushion. "Lets rest. These things have a way of working themselves out."

Only a sliver of sunlight was still visible on the horizon, a faint red glow that became a deep blue overhead. Already some stars were visible, white smudges of light rendered indistinct by the hazy atmosphere.

"I could use some sleep," he said with a yawn. "I'm liable to crash if I do any more driving tonight."

"Mutiny!" Vathamma shouted, looking around at her three companions who were quickly settling into sleeping positions. Relenting as she stifled a yawn of her own, she pulled a ratty gray cloak off of the floor and pulled it over herself. The bulky woman beside her spread out one leg, taking up two-thirds of the seat and wedging the Sith into a corner.

"Nomi," she hissed. "Trade seats with me."

The Mandalorian cocked one eye open and grinned devilishly at the Togruta.

"Wouldnt mind spending my last night alive with a cute girl in my lap." She wagged a finger at the alien in a come-hither motion. Nomi looked from her to the Sith and shook her head slowly from side to side, then laid down in Torin's lap.

He froze in his seat when he felt her weight settle on top of him, and the sensation immediately called to mind all of the questions he had wanted to ask her since the revelation of her betrayal. But this wasn't the time or the place. All he could do was hope that they lived long enough for him to get his answers—and that they weren't ones he didn't want to hear.

* * *

A violent rumble shook Torin awake. He jerked in his seat, nearly jumping out of the speeder when we saw what lay directly ahead of them. A massive land vehicle hardly any smaller than the _Dominator,_ the dozens of treads running along the bottom kicking up dust as it came to a stop. Two hundred feet of rusted metal led upward to beige canopies that blocked out the sun and fluttered in the breeze. It was no wonder they hadn't been able to find the outpost marked on the map—they had simply arrived too early.

Far above on a balcony running along the upper level of the sandcrawler, a humanoid head poked out over a railing. A hairless Twi'lek's two tendrils hung over her shoulders as she stared down at them, the sea-green alien looking more out of place than any of them in the vast red wastes.

"Identify yourselves," she shouted.

Torin looked at his companions, who by now were wide awake. Vathamma, who had swaddled herself in a rough gray blanket lying on the floor of the speeder, kept her head covered and face turned down. He stepped out of the vehicle and cupped his hands around his mouth to shout to the woman.

"We were prisoners on board an Imperial prison ship. We escaped during a battle with the Republic." Might as well keep the lie as close to the truth as possible, he thought.

She scrutinized him intensely. "Then why are you dressed like Sith? And why is that woman wearing an Imperial uniform?" She pointed at the Mandalorian.

Cursing her keen eyes, he wiped the sweat dripping from his forehead while he thought quickly. "Do I look like a Sith Lord?" He plucked at his grey tunic. "And does she look like an Imperial Officer?"

The woman took another look at the young man, then the mercenary with a half-shaved head in a uniform two sizes too small.

"Alright, let's say I believe you. Now to my next question. Where did you get that speeder?" Clearly she already knew where it had come from—or at least had her suspicions.

"We ran into slavers... and we killed them. It was self-defense."

She laughed. "Can't fault you for that. I guess they couldn't cut it."

"Can we come on board? We need to call for a pick-up." He said hurriedly, looking up and down the length crawler. One could easily fit an entire town in there, and he was willing to bet that _someone_ had a means of communicating off-world.

"Rides aren't free," she replied. A door opened in the side of the vehicle and a ramp extended. Three men in grubby clothing with rifles slung over their shoulders walked out of the opening and approached the group.

"Take the speeder," Torin shouted back. "It's yours."

"It's _already_ mine. It was on loan to those Duros you apparently put six feet under. Their guns were, too—I'm guessing you kept those."

"We broke out of a _prison,"_ he exclaimed, gesturing to his well-worn comrades. "We don't have anything to trade." Beside him, in the speeder, Vathamma's gold-laden chin caught the sun and glinted under her makeshift hood.

"Is that jewelry?" The woman above shouted. She turned to the group of men that had exited the crawler and pointed at the Sith. "Go see what she has."

One of the men broke away from the other two, hoisting his rifle in his grease-blackened arms and watching Torin through tinted goggles as he approached the woman. Torin raced in front of him and held out his hands.

"Whoa, whoa!" Torin cautioned him. The man jerked to a stop and pointed the rifle at him. All the apprentice had was words—hopefully that would be enough.

"She's harmless," he said slowly, waving an open palm in front of his face as he met the man's eyes through the goggles. "I'll go get the jewelry, ok?"

After a moment the man nodded, and Torin backed away towards the speeder.

"I will not barter with this _trash,"_ Vathamma hissed. Torin leaned over the speeder and threw a cautious glance at the Twi'lek tapping her fingers impatiently on the railing above.

"Even _you_ can't wave a hand and tell them all to let us on board... can you?" Her silence gave him his answer. "And we can't fight a rolling city full of these guys."

The goggled man moved in closer, and Torin leaned over the speeder door, his face inches from his Master's.

"I don't want to die out here, and I know you don't, either."

With a huff she yanked the bits of gold from her chin, stripping the red tendrils bare and dropping the jewelry into Torin's hand. He walked over to the scavenger and handed them over, receiving a satisfied nod in return. The man gave a thumbs up to the Twi'lek, who waved the group forward before disappearing from sight.

Torin and the others walked past the scavengers who took their place in the speeder and piloted it into a waiting docking bay. The four ascended a narrow flight of stairs, then passed through a doorway that opened up into a large hall that ran the length of the crawler.

The inside of the vehicle was no less patchwork than the outside, a living thing of winding pipework and ramshackle walls that had been stripped bare and repaired so many times that he had to wonder if the crawling city had any of the original parts left in it at all. Steam rose through a grated floor, partially obscuring the many people walking up and down what looked to be a marketplace. Stalls with colorful awnings lined either side of the passage, alien vendors gesturing at crates overflowing with scrap as they shouted at passersbyers.

Ahead of them, the Twi'lek from before passed through a cloud of steam, flanked by two guards whose fingers tapped at the blasters hanging from their belts.

"Whats your name?" She asked, stopping in front of the human leading the group.

"Torin Val."

"Welcome aboard, Torin." she said. "I'm Leda. How do you like my home?"

"Its very... colorful." Torin tugged at his collar, feeling the wet heat of the crawler's interior. "You live in this place?"

She smirked. "I _own_ this place." Her eyes fell on Vathemma, who held the dark blanket tightly around her body, only her red hands visible. "Whats her deal?"

"My wife," Torin replied quickly. "She was... _scarred_ in an Imperial attack. We keep her face covered so as to spare others the grisly sight—" his throat closed up momentarily and he fell into a fit of coughing.

Vathamma, relaxing her hand, watched from under the hood as the Twi'lek approached cautiously.

"Whats your name?" Leda asked, craning her neck to get a peek at the Sith's face. The shrouded woman muttered, and the other held a hand up to her ear as she got closer. "Huh? Speak up!"

"You will give us private bedrooms," she whispered, quietly enough that the Twi'lek's bodyguards couldn't hear. The woman stood silent for a moment, then stepped back with a grin on her face.

"I guess I can do that, seeing as I robbed you blind." She turned to the two men behind her. "Get us moving again. I'm going to get these four some rooms."

The guards left with a nod, and Torin followed the Twi'lek as she led the group down the hallway.

"We're hitting a landing pad tonight to unload and resupply." Every nook and cranny of the crawler was filled with electronics and scrap. It was difficult to tell which were part of the crawler, and which had simply been wedged into what little available space the scavengers could find. "It can fit those freighters the Hutts send, so I'm sure whoever's picking you guys up can land there."

"What exactly do you _do_ out here?" He asked, dodging a man who dragged a broken droid through the group.

"This system sits at the intersection of two hyperspace lanes. Some ships mess up the jump and get caught in the planet's gravity well. We pick up the pieces—" She gestured at the machinery and scrap filling the alcoves they passed. "—So to speak."

"That's not _all_ you do," Torin said, narrowing his eyes. Leda stopped and turned to him. "You take slaves."

She shrugged. "When we find survivors, sure. We don't _keep_ them, though. Like the scrap, they get picked up and sent off-world. We've got an arrangement with the Hutt cartel."

"How did a Twi'lek end up running this thing?" Maliss said. "Usually your type are _slaves,_ not slavers." Nomi slapped the mercenary's arm in admonishment, and Leda smiled back at them as they walked.

"Oh, I was. A Hutt used to own this crawler—and me. Until I choked him with the chain I wore around my neck." She laughed, as if she were remembering a fond childhood memory.

The blood drained from Nomi's crimson face. "You were enslaved by a Hutt, and now you _sell slaves_ to them?"

"Yep," she replied simply. The group entered a stairwell and went up a level within the crawler, entering a narrow hallway lined with low doorways. The sun shone in through grates dotting the ceiling, indicating that they were close to the roof.

"And now you mean to sell _us,_ is that it?" The Togruta stopped, eyes narrowed at the other alien. Leda turned around, her face deadly serious.

"No, because you fought for your freedom—and by doing that, you earned it." They began walking again. "That's my philosophy, anyway."

Maliss snorted. "Sounds right out of a Sith mantra."

The woman shrugged. "Doesnt mean it's not the truth—its just how the galaxy works." They stopped in front of a closed doorway and Leda hit a button beside it, sliding open the door to reveal a small bedroom no larger—or more furnished—than a prison cell.

"And the truth does not disappear simply because you close your eyes to it," Vathamma whispered to Torin before directing her face back towards the floor.

"Anyways, these are you." The Twi'lek pointed at four doors in a row. "Bathrooms are at the end of the hall. Piss on the floor, and we're going to have a real problem."

Leda left the way they had come, without so much as a glance at the _very_ suspicious hooded woman standing in the bedroom doorway. Vathamma's presence was normally overpowering, but now Torin could forget she were there if he so much as looked away, as if she were shrouding herself with more than just her gray robe. Was this the power of the Force?

"I need to rest," the Sith said to the other three, her voice heavy with exhaustion from the extended use of her powers and their desert ordeal. "But before that, I need to find a way off-planet. I risk alerting Lord Andar to my survival if I reach out to any of my old contacts—and right now, surprise is my sole asset."

"If you're desperate, I can get us a ride," Maliss said.

"Really?" The Sith balked in disbelief. "And they'll come _here?"_

"Absolutely," the Mandalorian stated confidently, hoisting up her belt. "One call and they'll be waiting for us. They're not gonna be happy to see me, but—"

"I don't care if they'll shoot you on _sight_ ," she snapped. "Make the call. And Apprentice—" The grubby gray cloak fell away from her head to reveal disheveled black hair and weary yellow eyes. "Find me new clothes."

His Master shut herself in her room and the Mandalorian left to find a communicator, leaving him and Nomi alone in the passage. He turned to leave, but she reached out and grabbed his hand with both of hers.

"Wait," she pleaded with him. "Let us talk." Gently but firmly he pulled his hand free.

"Later," he said, and left for the stairwell. He was angry, but more than that he was afraid. Afraid of what she would say when he asked about her involvement with Lord Andar. Had she grown close to Torin because of who _he_ was? Or had she been ordered to because of who his _Master_ was?

He shook those thoughts from his mind as he descended the stairwell and focused on the simple task he'd been given. The marketplace below their sleeping quarters was no less disorienting the second time he passed through it, his eyes scanning stalls packed with food and scrap as he avoided bumping into the humans and aliens haggling with each other in animated tones. Fragrant spices wafted in the air, mixing with the smell of oil and metal to create a noxious odor that burned his nostrils.

Below his feet, a faint rumble came every few steps, traveling from one end of the crawler to the other as vast mechanical apperatuses performed the arduous task of moving them across the flatlands. Other than that occasional noise, he couldn't even tell that they were moving. Perhaps that was because of the sheer size of the vehicle, like being on an ocean cruise liner. One could forget that they were caught in the middle of the sea until they stepped out onto the deck and saw that blue emptiness stretched out in every direction.

Torin stopped in front of one of the stalls. A scrawny green Rodian leaned against a rack of clothing behind a table. The alien was somewhere between reptile and insect, with large black eyes, two ears like trumpets, and a single long snout that served as both mouth and nose. The human customer caught his eye and he moved to greet him.

"What can I get you? Many clothing," he said, gesturing at the rack. A robotic voice came from a collar around his neck, the item translating the vibrations of his vocal chords as he spoke. The result was an odd mixture of alien squeaking and synthetic speech.

Torin scanned the rack, then pointed at a dress of deep purple and black. "Does that have a hood?"

The shopkeeper nodded and took it down from the rack, folding it on the table in between them. "Might not fit you."

"Oh, it's not for—"

Holding up a hand to stop him, the Rodian leaned in and lowered the volume on his translator. "I not judge. No need to lie."

Torin opened his mouth as if to speak, but closed it and pursed his lips.

"Thirty credits," the alien said, sliding the garment towards Torin.

Torin remained silent until the Rodian looked up expectantly, then waved his hand in front of him. "It's free."

The alien's narrow mouth deepened in what could only be called a frown. "Thirty. Credits."

With a frown and a quick exhale of exasperation he waved his hand again. "But I already paid for it." The shopkeeper's scaly eyelids fluttered at the sound of the smooth voice lulling him into a state of pliability.

"Sorry... I forgot." Shaking his head, the Rodian took his former position against the rack of clothing, apparently none the wiser about what Torin had done. It hadn't worked perfectly, but he was still amazed that the Force could be used to persuade like that. He'd only done it _twice_ and already he was out-haggling Rodian scrap merchants. Another week of practice and he could start a business selling pants to Hutts.

Why hadn't Vathamma told him about this? The ability to push and pull on physical objects was a miracle unto itself, but to do the same with _minds..._ that was something else entirely.

A glimmer caught Torin's eye, immediately bringing to mind the gilded jewelry Vathamma covered her jaw with—until that morning, at least. In a box a few feet from the rack of clothing were spheres of rough stone speckled with light yellow metal.

"Is that gold?" The Rodian followed Torin's finger and shook his head.

"Is Electrum ore. Very valuable."

The small ball of ore shifted in the bin, pulled towards Torin's outstretched hand. Dirt and dull red rock dropped away, leaving a cluster of rose gold that coalesced into a single hunk of shining metal as it floated past the startled shopkeeper. The ball lengthened and stretched, gold strands being woven like spiderweb between the man's hands as he drew multiple threads out from the solid mass. He returned it to it's original shape, then dropped it into the pocket of his jacket.

"It's not valuable at all," he said in a soothing voice. "It's just rock."

With a slow nod from the Rodian he left with the dress under his arm, then took the small orb of gold out to examine it in the light as he walked. He'd need to deliver the outfit to his Master eventually, but the first stop would be his own room.

* * *

Torin left his room and walked two doors down, sliding open the door to Vathamma's bedroom as soon as he reached it. He caught only the briefest glimpse of a red-skinned woman seated at a desk, clad in nothing but black leggings and a simple chest wrap. A bolt of force sent him crashing into the opposite wall, and the door slammed shut with a _bang._ Grimacing, he rose to his feet.

"Don't you knock?" Came a shout from within. He rubbed his bruised chest with one hand and knocked on the door with the other.

"What?" She said. He slid the door open slightly and peaked in to see his Master sitting at the desk beside her bed, datapad in hand and a faded brown blanket wrapped around her torso. He stepped inside and shut the door behind him, then walked behind her to see what she was focused so intently on.

"Its an intercept from Imperial Intelligence," she explained, seemingly reading his mind. "The last one I'll receive, now that my informants believe that I'm _dead._ " The report went on and on as she scrolled through the text and images. "The working assumption is that _you_ were a Jedi plant put in my care to gain access to Darth Dominus." She tossed the pad onto the desk. "My own complicity is not known. Either I knew who you were, and I am a traitor, or I didn't, and I am an idiot."

"They were that quick to mark me as a spy?"

"You _are_ from the Republic, and you never went through the academy on Korriban." She turned in her chair to look at him. "I suppose this is what I get for taking pity on something like you."

He opened his mouth to argue, but closed it and bit his tongue.

"I came here to give you these." He laid the folded dress down on the desk, then fished around in his pocket for a moment. He set his palm down on the desk and lifted it, revealing two small pieces of identical jewelry. Each one consisted of two small rings the diameter of a pinky finger, the top and bottom rings connected by a delicate weave of elegant electrum hand-made to slide over the Sith's chin tendrils.

"Whats this?" She eyed the light-gold pieces impatiently.

"I felt bad about you having to trade away your jewelry, so I made these."

Her brow creased and she swiped her hand across the desk, knocking the metal bits to the floor. "I can _buy_ more jewelry!" She hissed. "What I _care_ about is getting my empire back."

"You—" Torin sighed. He couldn't even will himself to become angry. The mistake was his for thinking for a moment that she'd fall for sentimentality like that. "I'll be in my room, Master."

The door slid shut behind him. Vathamma turned back towards her desk, staring intently at the wall for a few moments before slamming her fists down on the metal surface. She propped her elbows up in front of her and leaned her head on her hands.

She'd lost everything. Her home, wealth, rank, status—everything but her own flesh and blood. What was she left with? A servant who refused to serve, a mercenary she couldn't pay, and an apprentice whose power was as fickle as his nerve.

Then there was the added complication of her apprentice's infatuation with Nomi—something that Vathamma herself had encouraged back on Balmorra, when the entanglement was an asset to her. Now the Togruta served as a weight around his neck that kept him from reaching his full potential. She could simply _kill_ the Togruta, but such an act would render Torin utterly intractable. No, a more subtle approach was needed.

Her eyes fell on the jewelry lying on the floor near the door, and she smiled.

* * *

Torin returned to his own room to find someone waiting for him. Nomi sat on his bed, hands holding her knees while she tapped one foot on the grated floor.

"Hey," Torin said, startled by her appearance. He turned around to slide the door shut, doing so slowly to give himself time to think. What was he going to say? What did he _want_ to say?

Behind him, she cleared her throat and he turned around.

"I am sorry." She stared at her feet, watching her own toes wiggle in her shoes. "For nearly getting you killed."

He turned around and smiled weakly. "Well... it wasn't the first time."

"Are you mad at me?"

He'd become worryingly desensitized to having his life put on the line, and it was getting harder and harder to figure out who was to blame for an increasingly complex chain of events. With everything the others had done—his Master, Lord Andar, even _himself_ —could he really blame someone as powerless as Nomi?

"Yeah." He walked over to her and leaned over, then lifted her to her feet by her hands. "But..." She looked up at him, blue eyes glistening. "I probably would have done the same for my sister—if I had one." He smiled at her and she frowned deeply, upper lip quivering and tears welling in the corners of her eyes. She pulled her hands from his and wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him into a tight embrace. Wet tears ran down his neck, and he patted the Togruta awkwardly on the back.

"Just tell me one thing."

She pulled back and looked at him, his own gaze cast down and to the side.

"Did Lord Andar tell you to get close to me?

She gasped and shook her head "No!"

His eyes refused to meet hers, and she gripped the side of his head, pointing his face at her own. "No," she stated firmly, drawing a faint nod from Torin. Her warm hands remained on the side of his head, and the creeping trepidation he'd felt when he'd first entered the room turned to butterflies in his stomach.

"Well, I'll..." He trailed off and began to pull away, his eyes still fixed on hers. She pulled him back by his head and brought him close a second time, this time pressing her red lips firmly to his. He froze in place as her tongue slipped into his mouth, dancing about until she pulled back and looked at the young man.

"I am not a slave," she declared. He nodded, eyes wide and vacant, still in shock at her forwardness. "So you have _no excuse_ anymore."

His hands slid down to her waist, meeting hers as they both pulled her white shirt up and over her head, then did the same for his own dust-covered tunic. Their bodies met as they kissed again, the stifling heat of the small room doing little to dissuade them from pressing their sweat-stained flesh together.

Torin was sure he must have smelled awful, but the Togruta was intoxicating. Her sweet scent filled his nostrils as he slid his lips off of hers and moved to her neck, kissing up and down as she moaned and ran her hands over his bare torso.

His hand slid up her taut belly and tugged at the bindings covering her chest, fingers working deftly while he moved his mouth to hers. She stumbled backwards, pulling him with her onto the waiting bed. The covers were worn and rough, and they scratched at his back as the Togruta rolled on top of him.

He was a dead man on a dead planet, but he'd never felt more alive.


	13. No One Likes A Cheat

Torin lay in bed, examining the piping snaking across the bedroom ceiling. His hand ran up and down the thin arm stretched over his body, as if the Togruta would disappear if he didn't continuously remind himself that she were there.

Hours passed as they lay in bed, but time had done little to reduce the sweltering heat in the metal belly of the sandcrawler. It was late enough that the sun must have been growing low in the sky, but Leda and her crew had simply taken that as an opportunity to conserve fuel by shutting down the fans cooling the interior—the scavengers were nothing if not stingy.

"How long will you follow her?"

Despite being intimately aware of the woman pressed up against him, the question caught him off-guard.

"Who?"

"You know who." She met his gaze with one of unwavering intensity, demanding an answer. Freed from the twin shackles of a strict master and a hostage sister, her personality had changed at a speed that continued to surprise him. She was still the same young woman he'd fallen for the moment their eyes had first met, but he was quickly realizing that there was a depth to her he hadn't known. Perhaps that was not entirely his fault—as a slave, feigned obedience was her only line of defense.

Unable to search his own mind with those deep blue eyes sucking him in, he turned his head back towards the ceiling and chewed on his lip. There had been practical reasons he hadn't tried to run from Vathamma, chief of all being the woman lying beside him in bed. Now, that was no longer a concern. Once they were off this planet, they could slip away at any starport and disappear together.

"Before, you asked me to run. Now, we can run." She brought a hand up to his chest and traced circles around it.

"To where, though?" He asked, taking her hand in his own. "The Republic won't take me back. The Empire _definitely_ won't."

"Anywhere!" She exclaimed. "You can be _anyone,_ do _anything_."

He frowned. "I don't want to be just _anyone._ " Extending a hand to the foot of the bed, he reached out with his mind and drew the covers up over the two of them. " _This_ is me. I want to learn more about _this._ "

"It doesn't have to be her. There are others—"

"The Jedi?" He shot back. "Please. One nearly _killed_ me yesterday."

"So you are... what, using her?" Throwing off the covers, Nomi sat up in bed and twisted around to face him.

He didn't like how manipulative that sounded, and he couldn't even say his motives were that deliberate. It was more like his Master was a planet, and he some passing asteroid that got caught up in her orbit. He'd never said it aloud, but he'd come to think of it as fate that they'd met on that battlefield. Was it the Force, working its mysterious ways? Or was he just allowing himself to get dragged along by a will that overshadowed his own?

"It's complicated." The words sounded even _less_ convincing aloud.

She lowered her eyebrows into an intense glare.

"Do not tell me you are in love with her."

"Gods, no!" He could truly say that he'd never thought of her like that. She was beautiful, in a ferocious sort of way—any man could recognize that—but he admired her beauty in the detached manner one would a lavish art piece that would kill you for staring at it too long.

She narrowed her eyes further and he swallowed the lump in his throat.

"Good." Her head fell onto his chest, one of her tentacles laid across his neck and her horn tickling his nose. "I would not want to share—"

A repetitive _beep_ from his wrist had the pair sitting up in bed. Torin swung his legs onto the floor and with a grimace, answered his Master's call.

"Yes?"

"My room. Now."

He looked back at the Togruta sitting on the bed behind him, a dangerous scowl on her face.

"Ok, just give me—"

"Now," she repeated, ending the call. He heaved himself off of the bed and picked his clothes up off of the desk.

"Sorry," he said, throwing a sheepish smile back at Nomi before hurriedly dressing and leaving.

Upon reaching his Master's room, he went for the door control before quickly withdrawing his hand and knocking.

"Come in," came his Master's voice. He waited a few moments more, counting to five in his head, before sliding open the door and quickly closing it again.

 _Why isn't she dressed?_

"I said _come in,"_ she said again. He opened the door once more and stepped inside, eyes directed at the ground as much as he could manage without walking into a wall.

"Help me put this ridiculous thing on." She pointed at the dress laying on her desk. He went to pick it up and unfurled it, letting the purple velvet roll to the floor. He undid the zipper running from head to toe along the back and brought the dress around her front as she allowed her outstretched arms to slip through the sleeves.

"I said a robe, not a dress."

"This isn't exactly the place for high fashion. You're lucky I found this much," he said with a smirk.

She sighed and lowered her arms while he bent down to zip up the dress.

"Then I will walk around looking like some Mirialan soothsayer until we leave this horrid place."

Rising from the floor, he found himself lingering just a little too long with his knees half-bent and face in front of her tights-clad buttocks. He averted his gaze and stood to his feet, bringing the zipper up to her neckline. She rolled her shoulders forward, taut back rippling as she settled into the flowing garment.

"How do I look?" She spun around, dress twirling at her feet as she spun to face him. Her hair was undone, straight black locks hanging over her shoulders. Her chin was bereft of the usual jewelry, save two pieces of Electrum that wrapped around the two red tendrils hanging directly below her chin.

She picked up a black and purple veil from the desk and placed it over her head, covering her face with a fine mesh beneath which glowed two yellow eyes.

"How do I look?"

 _Beautiful._

He swallowed and nodded. "You look good."

She scoffed and put her hands on her hips. "Can you tell I'm _Sith?"_

"Oh, no," he said quickly, shaking his head. She rolled her eyes beneath the veil and walked past him into the hall.

"The sooner we leave, the better. That Twi'lek has come to my room _three times_ now, and I can only ward her off for so long. Her subconscious can tell that I'm not just some old crone." She knocked on Maliss' door, but there was no answer. While they waited, Nomi quietly stepped out of Torin's room and shut his door, drawing a sideways glance from the Sith.

Vathamma tried to open the door using the console next to it, but a harsh beep indicated that it was locked. Frowning, she extended a hand and swept the door to the side, crumpling the rusty metal into the edge of the frame like an accordion.

Torin peaked into the room as his Master walked away. The bed was still neatly made, and the rest of the room looked just as untouched. Since he couldn't picture the Mandalorian as someone who tidied up after herself, he had to assume she'd never even been there.

"You look for her above, I'll search below," his Master said, making her way to the narrow stairway at the end of the hall. He and Nomi followed, going up a level as the Sith descended towards the marketplace. They stepped out onto the roof of the crawler, a vast flat space cordoned off by roughly-hewn fences that stood between them and a two-hundred foot drop to the red badlands moving slowly below.

Night had begun to fall, and yellow lamps hanging from posts illuminated what was a veritable scrapyard of machinery and refuse. Far above them cloth canopies flapped in the breeze, though they were barely visible in the dim evening light. Scavengers lounged idly against stacks of crates and sat around small tables, smoking and drinking while they argued and laughed in a dozen different languages.

Navigating the maze of junk and metal, Torin and Nomi kept their eyes peeled for Maliss as they worked their way from the stairwell exit to the stern of the crawler. Raucous laughter came from up ahead, and they rounded a small mobile crane to see six figures seated around a large table. The Mandalorian wore a beige undershirt, apparently having lost her Imperial Officer's jacket in the game of Pazaak she was engaged in.

As he circled around and got a look at her scowling face, it became clear that her current hand wasn't any better. Credit chits were piled in front of each player, and Maliss' own stack was nearly exhausted.

"Come on, show 'em," the man across from her said, spreading four cards out in front of them. It was a good hand—almost _too_ good.

With a deep growl of dissatisfaction she put the cards down on the table and looked at her opponents', her frown deepening as she saw his hand.

"Them's the brakes." He grinned and reached across the table, pulling the last of the Mandalorian's credits towards his own towering pile. Leaning back with a toothy grin, he stretched his arms over his head.

"Don't take it personally, miss. Ain't no one who can beat an Ondrai salvager on his own turf."

As he lowered his arms back to the table, Torin surreptitiously extended one hand and used the Force to tug lightly on the inside of the man's sleeves. Cards spilled out from his right arm onto the table, drawing raucous hoots from the assembled onlookers and angry stares from the other players.

Maliss looked from the cards to the man slinking down into his seat.

"I knew it!" She shouted, then shot to her feet and flipped over the table, tackling the card cheat before he had a chance to flee.

" _What_ is she doing?"

Torin and Nomi turned away from the spectacle to look at Vathamma who had silently approached from behind. The veiled Sith stood in the shadows, avoiding the light poles scattered around the deck.

"Well..." He looked back at the melee that had broken out, at the center of which Maliss was slamming her opponent's head into the steel floor. "No one likes a card cheat."

She sighed.

"No one likes a sore loser, either. Grab her, we've reached the starport."

He took another look at the bulky hands wrapped around the hapless scavenger's throat and blanched, but swallowed his fears and shoved his way through the brawl to grab Maliss. As soon as he pulled the Mandalorian off of the poor man she swung around as if to tackle _him_ to the ground, but Torin let her go and held his hands up.

A stiff breeze cut across the roof of the crawler, briefly interrupting the melee as its participants shielded their faces from the dust thrown across them. Maliss began laughing, holding her stomach as she looked at something behind Torin. He turned to see Vathamma still standing beside him, her veiled hood carried off into the distance by the sudden gust.

"Sith?"

One of the men stared at Vathamma, his fist cocked back to punch a Rodian he held by the scruff of the shirt. More heads turned as the fight died down, all attention now redirected to the red-skinned woman standing in front of them. Half of the men and woman in the group slid their hands down to their blasters—the other half stepped back as if to run.

Leda pushed through the crowd, the Twi'lek flanked by the two scruffy guards who had greeted them with her when they'd first boarded.

"I knew it! I _knew_ there was something up with you!"

A tense silence fell over the two groups. Maliss flashed a grin at Torin, then grabbed a blaster from the holster of the man next to her, spinning around to shoot the two men on either side of Leda in the gut. Their smoldering bodies slumped to the ground, and all hell broke loose.

A short distance away, a Rodian pointed his pistol at Torin, the apprentice reacting just quickly enough to use the force to pull the gun out of the alien's grip and into his own. He fumbled with the weapon as he ran for cover, joining Nomi behind a low barrier opposite the scavengers. Leda herself had darted back behind a wall of crates for cover and was urging the other scavengers forward.

"Don't kill her!" She shouted. "She's worth a fortune!"

Vathamma raised her hands on either side of her and tensed her arms, purple and blue electricity dancing between her fingertips.

"You think to capture a _Sith Lord?"_ She extended one hand and unleashed a surge of lightning on the clustered thugs, blue current arcing from one man to the next as they dropped like flies caught in a bug zapper. The rest ran back to join their leader, seeking protection behind whatever makeshift cover they could find. The lights hanging from posts around them shattered, bathing the deck in shadow and making it impossible for Torin to get a good shot off.

Despite the darkness, the Mandalorian seemed to be having little such difficulty. She fired her blaster with each step backwards, picking off scavengers with well-placed blaster bolts as she beat a casual retreat towards Torin and Nomi.

"We need to get to the front of this thing!" He shouted at the two woman engaged with the scavengers. Vathamma had drawn her lightsaber, and deflected blaster bolts as her other hand crackled with scarcely contained energy. The Mandalorian turned to him and raised her gun, then fired a shot that narrowly missed his head. He ducked and spun around to see a raggedy-dressed alien fall to the ground, his pistol clattering to the grated floor. All four ran for the bow of the crawler, Nomi picking up the fallen blaster as the other three covered their retreat.

The Sith was a whirlwind of red light and heat that deflected any projectiles that came near her, and Maliss continued to pick off the scavengers popping up like rats while the group wound their way through the junk-strewn deck. Torin turned around to fire off wild shots, but only managed to briefly force their enemies to seek cover before they once again pressed forward in an endless swarm.

"God, you can't shoot for shit," Maliss said to him.

He swallowed and struggled to catch his breath as they neared the front of the crawler.

"They wouldn't stand a chance if I had my lightsaber on me."

Vathamma snorted. "He's never used a lightsaber in his life."

The Mandalorian laughed as all four made it to the end of the massive vehicle. The roof had narrowed into an outcropping that jutted out over the landscape, the plateau and the landing pad atop it a mere hundred feet away. Close enough to tempt them, but far too great a distance to hope to cross.

To their rear, the scavengers grew bolder when they saw the four off-worlders cornered on the edge of the crawler. They took cover and aimed carefully, firing well-placed shots that came _far_ too close for comfort. Torin, Nomi, and Maliss hunkered behind a low wall to return fire, but even with the Sith Lord they were outmanned and outgunned—they needed a plan.

The wind picked up again, blasting sand through the scrap yard and giving them a momentary reprieve. High above them, cloth flapped in the breeze.

"The canopy!" He yelled to his Master. "Hit the canopy!"

She raised her free hand and discharged a bolt of lightning upward, briefly illuminating the area with a purple light. For a moment nothing happened, then a small pinpoint of orange light appeared that quickly spread outward. The scavengers attention was drawn upward and they grew increasingly anxious as the fire grew in strength until it had nearly engulfed the tarp. A few broke away from the group, backing away towards the rear of the crawler.

A sharp _snap_ sounded out as the canopy broke away from the poles jutting up out of the deck, then swung down towards the scavengers. What was a temporary break in the fighting became a full-blown retreat as the panicked gang ran away from the sheet of fire sweeping from above, cutting a swathe of destruction across the deck as it knocked aside crates and salvage. The wall of flame came to a halt between the two groups, still burning with radiant intensity.

"Creative—but it doesn't help us much," Maliss said. Torin walked to the edge of the crawler and looked down. A few feet below was a solid sheet of brown aerated metal the width of the deck that stuck outwards.

 _A bridge?_

With no access to the controls to extend it, they had little hope of making use of it. Unless...

Pointing his open palms at the bridge, he extended his mind outwards and felt for the metal, as if he himself were holding it. Teeth clenched, muscles strained, and metal scraped against metal as he dragged the bridge out several feet. His strength left him and he nearly collapsed, staggering back upright as he turned to the Sith watching the fiery spectacle behind them.

"Master!" He beckoned the Sith forward and pointed at the bridge. Catching his meaning quickly, she took up a position beside him and pointed her own hands downward. Both Sith reached out with the Force, grabbing the edge of the bridge and willing it towards the waiting plateau. It scraped awfully against the inside of the crawler, held in place by unmoving gears that fought them for every inch.

He closed his eyes to shut out the rest of the world and focus on the task. His body ached and screamed at him, but his body wasn't what was moving the bridge. His mind—and through it, the Force—were what mattered. And he could not stop, _would_ not stop until they were safe.

Only a few short weeks ago he hadn't been able to make a ball the size of a fruit budge an inch. Now, such a thing was trivial. Moving thousands of pounds of steel across a precipice? Even with his Master helping him, that was harder.

But _far_ from impossible.

A hollow _clunk_ came from beneath them, and the exhausted apprentice nearly fell over as the bridge reached its maximum. The metal slab angled downward a few feet, slamming onto the metal landing pad across the gap with a force that shook the crawler's deck hard enough for him to feel it in his bones.

"Time to move!" Maliss ran past the pair while Nomi helped Torin to his feet. Behind them, a small crane piloted by one of the scavengers had been rolled down on the deck and was busy tugging at the wall of flame blocking their progress. The awning tore free of its moorings and fell down the side of the crawler as the four companions ran across the bridge. As soon as their path was clear the scavengers, emboldened by their numbers, swarmed over the bridge after them.

Torin reached the landing pad and spun around, bringing a fist down through the air and directing a wave of force down onto the bridge. It shook violently, and their pursuers slid to a stop. He repeated the motion, making the metal bend and creak with an invisible weight. The scavengers retreated again, shoving past each other in a rush to get off of the weakening catwalk.

With one more exertion of energy he slammed down on the bridge with all the power he could draw upon, snapping the bridge in two. A terrible sound echoed off the wall of the plateau as metal sheared from metal and both sides of the walkway collapsed, the half nearest them falling hundreds of feet to the ground below while the other half swung down onto the side of the sandcrawler. A few of the slower salvagers fell with it, their screams ending at the same moment a loud _bang_ heralded the bridge impacting the ground below.

Most of their enemy had made it back across the bridge onto the crawler, but they were cut off from the landing pad by a hundred feet of open air. For now, Torin and his companions were safe.

The scavengers began to retreat from the deck of the crawler, filtering back into the lower levels through the stairways like rats into a ship's ductwork. At first he thought they had simply given up on their pursuit, but then he heard it—a screech coming from far away, and growing closer. He turned around and looked up to see a ship approaching, silhouetted against the dark blue sky. The sound was familiar, and it only took him a moment to remember where he had heard it before.

"Is that an _Imperial_ shuttle?" Vathamma said, squinting at the dark shape growing closer and more distinct.

"That's the best I could do," Maliss replied. "I put out some calls to old contacts on public channels talkin' about where I was, said I needed a pickup, yada yada. Imperial Intelligence intercepts the calls, matches it to the warrants for my arrest, sends a team to take me out."

The Sith stewed silently. "And that's your plan? They're here to _capture you_. _"_

"They're only expecting _me,_ right? Relax." The Mandalorian grabbed Torin's pistol from him and knelt in front of Vathamma, holding her two pistols behind her back while she faced the approaching ship, a flat grey vessel with sloped sides and one wing loaded with an array of weaponry. It swung to its side as it neared the landing pad, turning so that the large door on the wingless side faced the group. The door opened and a ramp extended before it landed.

As soon as the ramp touched the ground troops began to spill out of the vessel. Five Imperial troopers in armor darker than the night sky lined up in front of them, blaster rifles held at the ready. A smartly dressed officer ducked out from the ship after them and approached as well, his eyes widening in surprise when he saw the red woman standing behind the Mandalorian. He waved a hand at his troops and they lowered their guns cautiously.

"I'm... _surprised_ to see a Sith Lord out here, my Lady. My apologies for the rude greeting."

Torin waited for the inevitable wave of the hand and the soothing _'forget you saw me',_ but it never came. The Mandalorian drew the pistols from behind her back and shot the officer and one of the troopers, then angled her arms further outwards, dropping another pair with shots to the chest. The Sith's hands shot out and lifted the two outermost troopers from the ground. Their heads twisted around with a grotesque _snap,_ and their bodies fell to the ground.

Six lives, gone in as many seconds.

Torin stood with mouth agape while the Sith and Mandalorian began walking to the shuttle.

"They weren't attacking us," he muttered, his voice picking up as he looked from the bodies to his Master. "You just… killed them."

"Yes, and now we're taking their shuttle," his Master replied without so much as a turn of the head.

He followed her, legs shaking and head swimming as he walked past the six bodies laid out on the ground. His legs were like stones, and his head throbbed with each beat of his heart—something was wrong. Feeling wetness on his lip, he wiped at it with his hand and brought it away to see fresh blood covering his finger.

He fell forward onto his knees, his body no longer obeying his mind. This time there was no merciful blackness before his face struck the ground—he felt the full force of his cheek hitting the metal of the landing pad. Hands shook him and two pairs of feet rushed towards him. He thought he heard shouts, but his hearing had already left him. Next to leave was his vision, luminescent whiteness overtaking him as consciousness faded away.

* * *

"One—breathe in."

Torin was in a white-walled courtyard under a flowering tree. A woman sat across from him cross-legged, her face cast in shadow despite the midday sun shining above. White petals drifted around her like water around a stone in a mountain stream.

"Two—breathe out."

He tried to move his head, tried to squint, anything to get a better look at her face... but his body wouldn't respond.

"See? It all starts with breathing."

The vision grew hazy and indistinct, then faded away as if someone had pulled a drain plug in his mind. Reality came roaring back in the form of a ringing in his ears and a woman's face over his own.

"He started breathing." Maliss moved aside as he sat up with a start on the floor of the shuttle. Through a doorway ahead of him, Vathamma sat in the pilot's chair, moving them through the blackness of space. She punched a button on the center console and the ship jerked as they made the jump to hyperspace, the pinpoints of starlight visible out the window of the bridge stretching and widening into an indistinct mass, forming a tunnel around the vessel.

"What happened?" He gasped. Nomi was standing to his left and Maliss to his right, both looking down at him with concern.

"You overdid it," his Master said as she approached.

"That's normal, isn't it?" He turned to his Master. "I'm still new to this, after all."

"Collapsing from exhaustion? Perhaps." She leaned over and placed her finger in between his eyes. "But suffering a mild cerebral hemorrhage _certainly_ is not."

The Togruta knelt beside him and dabbed at his lip with a damp cloth, wiping away the blood that had stopped dripping from his nose. He pushed her hand away and stood up, putting his back against a wall as he leaned on his knees and glanced to the empty pilot's chair.

"Where are we going?"

"Odessen," his Master replied.

He thought for a moment. "I've never even heard of it."

"That isn't surprising. It's in uncharted space—it was no simple matter to locate a planet both strong in the Force and devoid of sentient inhabitants."

"Hold on, uncharted space?" Maliss interrupted them. "We should be getting that data from Andar's ship!"

Vathamma frowned and walked towards the Mandalorian.

"In a stolen Imperial shuttle? No, we shouldn't." The redheaded woman backed down and leaned against a wall, folding her arms across her chest.

"Fine, we need a ship. You expect to find one _there?"_

"Yes, among other things. I stashed one there, after all."

Nomi eyed the Sith doubtfully. "You have never been to Odessen."

She smiled in response. "While _you_ were in my service? No, I haven't been there in over ten years—and for good reason. As much as it pains me to admit it, I had often considered the possibility of an enemy lurking in the shadows... or in plain sight, as it turned out. One whose plans went unnoticed until it was too late. What if I lost everything... _truly_ everything, save my own person. So I created a contingency plan from which I could rebuild."

Torin nodded along, then stopped.

"Wait... you said you haven't been there in ten years." The Sith turned to face him. "How old are you, exactly?"

She screwed up her face at him, then walked into the cockpit. The Togruta stared down at her feet awkwardly while the Mandalorian walked over to the young man and put her hand on his shoulder.

"Hey, we're gonna be in this tin can together, right?"

He nodded, and she squeezed his shoulder tightly.

"So try not to get us killed."

* * *

Watching a ship being assembled was roughly as interesting as watching paint dry.

Far _less_ interesting, actually, considering that letting the paint dry was an actual part of the process.

Now watching hundreds of ships being built at once—that was far more engaging. Lord Andar stood in front of the viewing window, surveying the vast swathe of orbital arrays containing hundreds of cutting edge fighters, all in various degrees of completion. Building a shipyard on the edge of known space was difficult. Facilitating the transportation of the necessary supplies was even harder. Doing so under the nose of both the Republic _and_ the Empire was asking the impossible—but the impossible was what had been asked of him by his Master, and he had done it.

 _Emperor_ Malgus would have his fleet.

Change was coming. Not just reform or revolution—a total sweeping aside of the old order, a cleansing fire that would engulf the old Empire, and from whose ashes a new Empire would rise. Andar had positioned himself so that he would sit near the top of this new Empire, but his motives were not cynical. Simple profit was not cause enough to commit treason and devote years of work and planning towards their goal. He had joined Malgus in his endeavor because he believed in his vision.

As did many, many others.

The doors opened behind him, followed by approaching footsteps. Even without the use of the Force, he recognized her presence immediately. With his hands clasped behind him he cocked his head back and turned slightly as she walked towards him.

Isatryn Sol. A Falleen—the only Sith of her kind. She had green skin with the slightest hint of blue, and a single long braid of black hair hung from the back of her head. Ridges ran over her skull from her hairless brow to the back of her neck, and her hazel eyes darted to and fro with a predatory intelligence. Unlike most of her race, who preferred revealing dresses that left little to the imagination, Isatryn wore a black shawl over a heavy trench coat with a bronze belt buckled around the waist. Such apparent modesty for a Falleen only served to draw _more_ attention to her, but modesty was not why she wrapped herself in such heavy layers.

"My Lord." She stopped beside him and bowed.

"Apprentice." He returned her greeting with a slight nod of the head and returned his eyes to the window. One of the ships floated free of its construction array and began moving towards them.

His apprentice handed him a datapad and he scrolled through it in silence, his frown deepening as he read through the report from Imperial Intelligence. Maliss Vizla had not died aboard the _Dominator,_ and had even managed to dispatch the entire strike team sent to apprehend her. Imperial Intelligence had done its work identifying her transmission, but had failed spectacularly in their attempts to act on the intel. If his _own_ men had been sent, she would never have left the planet alive.

"She knows?" His apprentice gestured at the assembly yards hovering in space.

He shook his head "Gods, no. But she knows who hired her, and who tried to kill her—that is reason enough to make sure she dies."

"Lady Vathamma?"

"I do not know." He furrowed his brow thoughtfully. "If she is alive as well, that is a far larger problem." He tapped his foot and rubbed his chin, staring thoughtfully out the window at the fruits of his labors—ones that recent events threatened to put into jeopardy.

"Go to Ondrai—interrogate anyone whose path she may have crossed, find out what they know."

She did not move, and her eyes met his in the window's reflection. After a moment, he turned to face her.

"You'll need a ship, of course."

She nodded with a pleased smile. Even around Lord Andar, Isatryn was careful with her words. Part of him could not help but feel insulted that his own apprentice felt it necessary to manager her power so carefully in his presence, but such thoughts were mere vanity on his part.

"I think we can spare one." Master and Apprentice turned back to the window and watched as a fighter drifted past. The hull shimmered and warped, then disappeared completely as if the vessel had never been there.


	14. Wanderer In A Sea Of Fog

"This isn't what I expected." Torin leaned over the pilot's chair, peaking out of the cockpit window as they neared the surface of Odessen, nearly scraping the tops of pine trees in their final descent towards the thick mist blanketing much of the planet's surface. Countless cliffs and craggy ridges poked out from the fog, those outcroppings and the trees around them being the only evidence that the planet did indeed have a solid surface beneath the fog.

Their shuttle was approaching one such rock face, though this one had features beyond the natural. A flat white cylinder of gleaming metal was stuck into the cliffside, attached by covered walkways to similar, but smaller structures dug into the rock on either side of it. In front of the central building was a landing pad, below which ran a waterfall that sprayed the underside of the man-made complex with a fine mist.

"What _were_ you expecting?" His Master asked as she slowed the shuttle and began to lower it into the landing pad below.

"A log cabin, _maybe_ some dinky metal prefab setup. Not a... palace." As the shuttle settled onto the landing pad with a _thump,_ he bent over to get a look at the structure. A double doorway to the main structure lay across a short walkway, beside another door leading to a lift that stretched down to the planet's surface.

"Oh, you're exaggerating." She unbuckled from her seat and left the shuttle, leading the group across the pad to the doorway. There was no lock or keypad—why bother? The only sign of life he'd seen were the flocks of birds scared up out of the trees they'd passed in the shuttle. As far as he knew, there wasn't another permanent settlement in the same _system_ as Odessen.

"How did you _build_ this?" Nomi marveled as they entered the main room. Cleaning robots darted from either side of the doorway, making her jump back in fright. They went to work on the white-walled circular room, pulling the protective film off of furniture and scrubbing the floor with their movements. The musty smell of dust was quickly replaced by the metal tang of ozone as the home was scrubbed clean of years of neglect.

"I didn't," Vathamma replied. "I acquired it from an Exchange Underboss who did not think it necessary to pay Imperial tariffs."

"You stole it," Torin stated flatly.

His Master scoffed. "What do you take me for, a common thug?" She pressed a button on the wall near the doorway and the blinds covering the windows retracted it, allowing sunlight to flood in. "I forced him to sign over the deed, then I killed him. There was nothing illicit about the transaction."

She led the trio through another door that opened into a white, featureless server room. An old terminal sat against the wall, and it whirred to life after the press of a few keys.

"Our main order of business is figuring out where Lord Andar—or his ship, rather—are located. From there we can devise a plan to retrieve the data she recovered." Vathamma gestured at Maliss.

White text streamed across the dust-covered black screen, and the Sith frowned. "But that will be impossible to do with the subspace communications array down." She turned to Maliss and Nomi. "You two can make yourselves useful and fix it."

* * *

Nomi pushed the hovercraft through the forest, navigating towering pines and low copses of shrubs as she and the Mandalorian made their way to the communications array. Despite the fact that the sled did not actually touch the ground, she could still feel every sharp bump and gentle roll of the ground beneath it as the container full of spare parts on top jingled with each shake of the cart. Maliss walked ahead of her, surveying the treeline while her right hand played at the blaster hanging from her side.

"Do you expect to need that?" Nomi said, nodding at the weapon when Maliss cocked her head back to look at her.

"Nope." She turned back around.

"So why—"

"Better to have it and not need it, than to need it and not have it."

The Togruta grunted, and Maliss stopped to watch as the alien struggled to push the sled over a steep ridge in the ground. With a jerk and a whine from the repulsors keeping it aloft it slid over, Nomi nearly falling on her face as she was pulled with it.

Maliss smiled. "Jeez, how did you last so long with those two?"

"What do you mean?" Nomi said.

"The two Sith doing God knows what back at Cloud City." She thumbed back towards the cliffside home. "I'm still not sure what's going on with those two, if they're banging or what. Seems like a weird dynamic."

The Mandalorian began walking again and Nomi struggled to catch up.

"They certainly are _not_ 'banging'."

"Oh," Maliss said. She let the silence hanging in the air for a few moments. "So _you_ two are fucking?"

Nomi's crimson face turned a shade redder, blush spreading to the whites of her horns.

"That is none of your business," she stammered.

Maliss let out a harsh cackle. "That answers that."

"And what did you mean _'how did I last so long'_?"

"One's a Sith, the other's a _weaker_ Sith, but still a Sith. You're a..." She cocked her head back at the Togruta straining against the cart. "...a you."

Nomi swallowed.

"Let me guess, you think you don't have to bring anything to the table but that well-shaped ass?"

Nomi turned her head back to take a look at her behind before catching herself and snapping her head back forward.

"Problem is, even if that lasts—and it doesnt—its not enough. I've seen it a thousand times."

"Seen _what_ a thousand times?" Nomi asked.

"Guy falls for girl because she's oh-so-cute and oh-so-helpless, then the going gets rough and he realizes that watching out for two people is pretty damn exhausting."

"I do not need anyone watching out for me," she shot back.

Maliss snorted. "Then maybe I should leave you out here for the Mynocks."

Nomi glared daggers at the woman's broad back.

"And _sometimes,_ it's the girl who leaves." Her tone became melancholy, like she were recalling some sore memory. "Because she realizes the danger is a lot more bloody and messy than it is romantic."

"I have _already_ been shot at," Nomi declared confidently. "I am not running from anything."

Maliss shrugged, and Nomi threw a wistful glance back at the Sith's outpost as it disappeared under the treeline.

They continued walking in silence until Nomi spoke up once more.

"I want you to teach me how to shoot," she said.

Maliss turned around to see the alien standing in front of the hover sled, fiddling with a blaster. The Mandalorian stopped and she felt around her waist for her gun, then stomped over to the Togruta and tried to grab it from her. Nomi held the pistol back, keeping it away from the mercenary while giving the scarred woman a determined glare.

"Fine." Maliss relented and Nomi brought the gun back within her reach, allowing the Mandalorian to swipe it from her grip.

* * *

A stiff breeze caught Torin's hair as he stepped out onto the balcony. He popped his tunic collar up over his neck, then thrust his bare hands under his armpits. A blanket of fog stretched out before him, interrupted by rocky precipices and clusters of evergreen trees that thrust defiantly out of the mists towards a steel-blue sky in which not a single cloud could be seen. It was like the whole world had been inverted. Below him lie those veiled heavens, and above hung an endless sea of unblemished blue.

Despite the great height of the waterfall raging below, he felt no fear when he turned his gaze towards the landscape stretching out into infinity. It felt like he could see on forever, if only the planet didn't curve off into the horizon.

Something hit him lightly in the back, and he turned around to see a blue coat lying on the ground. He picked up the thick jacket as his Master approached, slipping his arms into it and feeling the fur collar nuzzle his neck. He opened his mouth as if to speak, his first instinct being to comment on the view, but it occurred to him that doing so might take something away from the majesty of it.

"Can I ask you something?" He said to her. She leaned on the railing and looked down at the waterfall.

"Of course."

"Why didn't you kill me when we first met?"

She pursed her lips and turned to face him.

" _Why_ do you insist on opening old wounds?"

He sighed and shook his head.

"It's not... about that. Just humor me."

Her fingers drummed on the metal railing.

"You were a Force user, and therefore a valuable prisoner."

"Ok," he said. "But why take me back to Balmorra?"

A grumble escaped her throat, as if he were pulling at threads she didn't want undone.

"When you used the Force to stop my blade, I could not sense a thing from you."

"You couldn't sense the Force in me? How's that possible?"

"Not _coming_ from you, no." She traced a finger in the air, outlining his body. "It is all around you, but not as if you draw upon it actively. More like you sit at the center of some abyss towards which it falls."

"And you thought that was... worth of study?"

She shrugged. "I thought it was interesting."

"Then why do I feel so weak here? You said this planet was strong in the Force."

Turning back to the view laid out before them, she flapped a hand dismissively.

"That's a question for an academic."

"Hey, this _matters."_ He put a hand on her shoulder, but quickly withdrew it when she turned to him in surprise at his touch. "Were going to have to fight again, and I don't want to be a liability."

"Look at you, all gung-ho." A sly smile broke her icy facade and he frowned in response. She patted him on the arm and walked back towards the central room. "Oh, I'm just teasing you. Come with me." She waved and he followed her, his Master momentarily entering her room before returning with a candle on a small bronze disc. She set it down in the center of the room and knelt in front of it, then indicated for him to do the same.

"Meditation?" He brought his hand in front of his face and clenched it tightly. "I can barely even _feel_ the Force here."

"Which is exactly _why_ we're doing this _here."_ With a snap of her fingers and a spark from her hand the candle wick burst into flame. "Now, allow your body to relax."

Muscles went slack and his body drooped, eyelids falling half-closed. "Let the tension flow out and the Force flow in."

There was no breeze within the room, but the candle flame flickered and flared.

"Close your eyes. Do you still see the flame?"

"No," he mumbled.

After a moment of silence he heard her voice again, as if from a great distance. "What do you see?"

"Blackness."

"Look harder," she instructed him. He dove deeper within his own mind, searching out that trackless dusk for any feature or landmark.

"I see... colors. Like red mist."

"Good—follow them."

And there it was.

A scintillating circle of radiant black, around which hung a corona of crimson light. The mist all around him swirled around and into the edges of the disc, like water down a half-plugged drain. More wisps trailed off of it like sun flares from an eclipsed star. The black circle throbbed and pulsed in time with the flares, struggling to hold back whatever barely-contained power lay beneath.

"I see it," he muttered.

"Good!" Came his Master's voice. "Now, take it."

He reached out from the edges of his mind towards the ghostly light. The vast internal space might as well have been molasses, a resistance that met his attempts to reach it with increasing power the closer he drew, like trying to touch the identical poles of two magnets together.

Pushing through, he imagined his hands wrapped around the edges of the black disc, fingers dug under it as he pried it away. It was like trying to pull the drain plug from a bath still filled with water—it simply would not come.

Sweat rolled down his neck and dripped from his nose with each twitch of his eyes. He pictured his feet dug in on either side of the barrier, planted firmly on the ground of his mind. This was his mind, his power—it would obey him.

As he pulled, the red light spilling out from around the disc grew in strength, turning to a thick cloud that wound its way around his trembling ankles. The black circle vibrated in his grip, as if it might shatter from the sheer strain of being lifted.

He could not hold on any longer. No matter how much he screamed to himself that _it_ would break before _he_ did, the barrier gripped in his hands snapped back, slamming down between his feet. An explosion of white light blinded him, and he was thrown up and away from the well of power he had worked so hard to reach. His body struck something hard, and he opened his eyes.

The room was in tatters. Wind howled through the broken windows circling the room, whistling past the jagged remains of glass running along the edges. Across the room, his Master lay crumpled between the broken halves of a couch, her robe wound around her body and hair a mess. Grunting, he picked himself up off of the floor, using the wall to steady himself.

"Are you alright?" He shouted, hardly able to hear his own voice over the ringing in his ears and the squall entering through the shattered windows. Rolling over onto her front and propping herself up by her elbows, she nodded without turning to him.

The doors leading to the landing pad opened, and Nomi and Maliss rushed in. The latter held her blaster at the ready, while the Togruta ran over to Torin and took him by the arms.

"What happened?" She said while Maliss peeked outside one of the windows, then stowed her blaster.

"Can't help but notice all the glass is on the _outside,"_ the Mandalorian noted.

"It wasn't an attack," Vathamma grunted. "Were fine."

"So what _happened?"_ Nomi hissed at the Sith. Blood dripped from Torin's nose, staining the front of his gray tunic. The Togruta began to walk him towards one of the bedrooms, but Vathamma stormed over and blocked her path.

"Were not done here!"

Nomi frowned at her and circled around while Torin waved his Master off, still in a half-conscious daze.

"Yes, you are." She led the man on her shoulder into the bedroom and the doors shut behind them.

* * *

The sandcrawler sat motionless, its vehicle bay open and ramp extended. Dozens of ragged scavengers lined the walls of the bay, eyes fixed forward and blasters held to their temples. A Twi'lek knelt on the ground in the center of the room, pressing a knife to her own throat as she faced the open bay doors. Her attention was focused on the figure pacing back and forth atop the ramp, a green-skinned woman with a single black braid of hair. The woman, a Falleen, wore a purple gown that left her lithe arms exposed and the sides of her gilled neck uncovered, with a small stretch of fabric that ran up the center of her throat and stopped just short of her jawline.

Between the two women stood another scavenger, a man. Grease-blackened fingers fiddled with the goggles on his forehead as he recounted his story to the Falleen. She rolled her hand in front of her while she strode from one end of the ramp to the other, encouraging the man to speed up his meandering tale.

"...Then, the cards fell outta my sleeve. Still don't know how _that_ happened."

"I don't _care_ about that." The Falleen's voice was a hoarse whisper, barely audible over the howl of wind outside. "What about the Sith?"

The man swallowed. "I... ran as soon as I saw her."

She rolled her eyes and pointed at the line of scavengers against the wall. "Take your place."

He walked over and squeezed into formation, then took his blaster from its holster and held it to his head. Sweat dripped from his brow and his hand shook, metal blaster rattling against his skull, like his body was smart enough to recognize something that his mind didn't.

"Does anyone _else_ know anything about the off-worlders?" She walked down the double line of scavengers, repeating the question again as she reached the other end of the room.

There was no answer.

"Shoot yourselves," she hissed.

Blaster fire erupted on either side of the bay, painting the walls with blood and brain matter. As the last of the bodies fell to the floor, the Falleen circle around to the kneeling Twi'lek.

"Leda, yes?"

She nodded in response, digging the blade in her hand into the side of her own neck as her head moved up and down.

"Is there anything else you can tell me?"

Leda's eyes darted about anxiously, then shot back to the woman looming over her. "The surveillance tapes! There's a camera pointing at the entrance they used when they came on board."

The other woman pointed to the doorway at the rear of the bay. "Show me."

The Twi'lek led her up a narrow stairwell and through the living quarters, passing the bedrooms her prey had used a short time ago. Nothing in there besides crumpled bedding and an old cloak. They moved deeper into the crawler until they reached a sealed door at the end of the hall. Leda punched a code into the doorway keypad, then ducked into the claustrophobic room with the other woman following shortly after.

Leda sat down at a desk atop which were stacked dozens of different small computer screens, each showing a live feed from different areas of the ship, though half of the screens were filled with static. Touching a finger to one of them, Leda rewound the tape of the crawler's personnel entrance to the day before, until four figures zoomed by in reverse. She stopped the tape, then resumed playing it at normal speed.

The figures moved by again, walking below the camera. A human man and woman, a Togruta, and someone shrouded in a dark cloak. The woman was certainly Maliss Vizla—there was no mistaking her distinctive build, and the officer's uniform she wore left little room for doubt.

"Pause it." The Falleen pointed at the cloaked figure. "You are sure that she was a Pureblood Sith?"

Leda nodded. "Yes."

"Keep playing."

The figures resumed their movement across the screen, and the Sith's young apprentice looked up towards the camera just as he was about to leave its narrow view. The Falleen's eyes went wide and she drew in a sharp breath.

"Pause, _pause!"_ She rasped, moving the Twi'lek's hand to the screen.

"That man—" the Falleen pointed at him. "—Who is he?"

Leda looked at her uneasily. "I told you already... He was Sith, like her."

"That's _impossible!"_ She winced as soon as the shout left her throat, squeezing her eyes shut and clutching her neck until the ancient scar running across it ceased throbbing. She grabbed one of the Twi'leks head tentacles and yanked it downward, drawing a pained yelp from the alien. "Did you _see_ it? Did you _see_ him use the Force?"

"Yes," she croaked. "He broke a bridge clean in half—killed three of my men."

The other woman's nostrils flared and her breathing intensified until she looked as if she might collapse.

"G-g-go into the hall," she stammered, letting go of Leda. "And slit your throat."

Shaking terribly, Leda stood up from the desk with her knife in hand and walked out of the room. She stopped, then brought the blade up to her throat and drew the edge across it. Blood poured downward, turning her blue neck red as she drew in wet gasps before falling to her knees.

The Falleen turned back to the pixelated face of the Sith's apprentice and stared at the monitor with a deep scowl. Cracks formed across the screen and it sparked and whined until the glass cracked and the image went dark. She walked out into the hall, past the Twi'lek clutching her throat, down the stairs, past the dozens of smoldering corpses in the docking bay, and out into the storm of red dust raging around the sandcrawler.

The solitary figure walking into the blasted wastes pressed a button on her belt, and the air ahead shimmered as a Sith interceptor materialized from the rusted landscape. A ramp extended from below the bridge, accepting its master before the ship faded back into the red mists sweeping their way over the twin wings.

Were there anyone left to listen, the roar of engines could be faintly heard over the wasteland's squalls as its last living soul departed.

Above the surface of the red planet quickly disappearing from view, the Falleen switched on her craft's autopilot and knelt down in the space behind the pilot's chair, clasping her hands in her lap and letting her eyelids droop.

Her quarry was long gone, but the trip had not been a complete waste. Lady Vathamma lived, as did her apprentice... _that man._ Those were surprising turns of events, as was the fact that they'd seen fit to take the Sith's Togruta slave along with them. _Why_ they had done so she could only guess, but the why was not particularly important. What was important was the leverage that gave her in drawing out her prey.

* * *

Anyone who has drunk to excess knows full well the uncertainty upon waking, before any movement is attempted, of whether or not they would be spending the day nursing a hangover. Torin awoke with similar trepidation, and gently turned in bed to look out the window beside his bed. From his position he could just make out the tops of a few trees poking out past the fog, birds in their rookeries crying out to greet the morning while he searched his body for any niggling aches or pains. Not finding any, he sat up and swung his feet onto the floor, then stood up.

Still fine.

Whatever had happened to him the day before—whatever he had done to himself—it hadn't seemed to left a lasting impact, except for the devastated main room of the villa. Conflicting thoughts tugged and pulled at each other when he thought about his condition. That power was dangerous, yes, but he _had_ it—he _wasn't_ weak. It would take time, and effort, but it was his body and his mind. If it could be unleashed, it could also be managed and controlled.

But those were thoughts for later.

Torin stepped out of his room in his underwear, checking that the main room was empty before running out onto the landing pad to the Imperial Shuttle they'd stolen the day before. He clambered onboard and swept his hand in the baggage containers above the rows of seats lining the craft, eventually landing on a small bag that he pulled out and peaked inside of.

Medigel, painkillers, bandages... and a razor.

He sprinted back inside the villa, rubbing his arms as he cursed himself for not throwing on a robe before stepping outside. Passing through his bedroom into the adjoining bathroom, he set the bag down on a counter below the bathroom mirror and turned on the shower, letting steam flood the room before stripping nude and stepping inside the small glass enclosure.

A real shower, with hot water. Never had he thought he'd miss something so simple so much. Sheer exhaustion had prevented him from enjoying one the night before, and days worth of sweat and red dust were begging to be scrubbed from his skin and hair. After a cleaning session that could only be described as indulgent in terms of how long it took, he stepped out of the shower and wiped the mirror dry, running a hand over the dark stubble that threatened to turn into a scraggly beard if he left it alone any longer.

Wet shaving cream slathered between his hands, and he wiped it over his face and begin going to work with the razor. As he drew the sharp blade carefully down his cheek, the bathroom door opened and he flinched, drawing blood with the sharp blade.

"I'm busy here!" He said, grabbing for a towel while he held a hand to his cheek. Maliss walked behind him and began undressing, tossing her undershirt and brown pants in a heap on a table in the corner of the bathroom.

"I know, you're takin' too long."

Torin snapped a towel off the rack and hurriedly wrapped it around himself.

"You can't use another bathroom?" He said, shaving cream still covering half of his face.

"Other ones only got a bath," she said. "I hate baths."

He shook his head and tied the towel around his waist, doing his best to focus on shaving while the Mandalorian continued to undress in the edge of the mirror. Her breasts popped free of her shirt as she pulled it up over her head, abdominal muscles rippling with each twist and turn of her torso.

 _Peace is a lie._

He chanted the mantra to himself inside his head, trying to speed up shaving without turning his face into mincemeat. Maliss' foot came into view and her underwear slid off of it before being tossed on top of her other clothes.

 _There is only passion._

With the woman nude and the water already warm she _should_ have gone into the shower where he could pretend there wasn't a naked musclebound woman a few feet from him, but in the mirror he saw the Mandalorian walk towards him before grabbing him by the arms and spinning him around.

"Wha—" he gasped as he came face-to-neck with her. She was staring at the right side of his chest, brow furrowed angrily.

"What the hell happened to your chest?" She said. "I stabbed you right here!" She jabbed a finger in his rib cage, pushing him against the sink. Before he could respond she spun him around again, his towel nearly coming loose until his hands shot down to hold onto it.

"There's no scar!" She leaned over, face inches from his back.

"Vathamma healed me, alright?" He said.

The woman stood up and shook her head. "Now I'm mad about _this."_ She took one hand off of him and pointed at the burned flesh running across her temple.

"You said it was water under the bridge!" Torin shot back in exasperation.

"Yeah, because I thought I gave you a nice scar too." She gave him a light shove before stepping into the shower. "Now I'm pissed again."

She stepped into the shower, the frosted glass door pane rattling as she slammed it. Torin shook his head and finished shaving, then left as quickly as possible, dressing in his bedroom before entering the main room.

The central lobby was empty, but the door to the server room was open and he could hear talking coming from within. Nomi sat in front of the screen while Vathamma hunched over her.

The pair turned to Torin as he entered, and Nomi rushed over to him.

"My sister left me a message." Her voice shook, and he took her by the arms to steady her.

"Isn't that good?"

She shook her head furiously. "Lord Andar did not live up to his end of the deal."

Vathamma rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. "What a shock."

Nomi shot her an angry glare and turned back to Torin. "She says she is being held aboard his ship, that he never released her from service." Her words were full of venom and her fingers clenched at his arms. "She only managed a short message, but it has coordinates. We must save her!"

She stared up at him pleadingly, and after a moment he looked to the Sith.

"This affords us a unique opportunity," his Master said. "If the message is to be believed, his flagship is docked for resupply at a station orbiting Quesh—as is the data dump our Mandalorian managed to acquire."

"If it's too be _believed?"_ Nomi turned to the Sith.

"Yes," she replied. "Because it certainly _reeks_ of a trap."

Torin hadn't wanted to say it, but a similar thought had occurred to him. It felt too easy to have their prize presented on a silver platter—in a sparsely-patrolled border zone of Imperial space, no less.

"Still, we are left with few options." She turned off the computer, then strode out of the room. "So, to Quesh it is."


	15. It's A Subtle Thing

The four companions wasted no time in their preparation to leave the planet, stripping the Imperial shuttle of its useful gear, as well as what had been stored in the cliffside villa. The elevator leading from the landing pad to the surface of the planet had a stop in between—a hidden hangar, built into the side of the cliff with bay doors that were indistinguishable from the surrounding rock outside. Contained within the hangar lay a single ship, an Imperial interceptor similar to the one Torin had boarded when his future Master spirited him away to Balmorra.

It was older, of course—a legacy item if you were being generous, an antique if you were not—but it was in working order. Each time Torin entered the hangar with a hover sled full of supplies he saw Nomi inspecting a different part of the ship, pumping liquid nitrogen through coolant hoses to test for leaks or measuring afterburner alignment. He could only hope that her subconscious hatred of Vathamma did not override her better judgement when she checked for any issues that could have the ship cracking in two when they made the jump to hyperspace.

More worrisome than anything going on inside the hangar was what was happening outside. The fog which enveloped the planet grew thicker each time he made the trip topside, until the last of the treetops had disappeared in the murk, leaving the few remaining mountain tops as the sole evidence of solid land. Thunder sounded in the distance, blue lightning crackling upward from shrouded ground to clear sky in a strange perversion of normal weather. For all he cared, whatever storm was coming could sweep aside the cliffside home, landing pad and all, as long as it had the decency to wait a few hours for their departure.

Still, he could not help but consider it a bad omen. In his past life—if he could call it such a grandiose thing—he never would have entertained superstitious thoughts, but now the Force flowed through him. Surely, he had to trust his gut feelings if they came from some fount of deeper wisdom.

This was why, despite the creature comforts afforded him during the short stay, Torin was happy to board the ship with the others as they made the final preparations for their departure. He walked up the ramp, ascended a short stairwell, and passed through the lounge in the center of the ship, tossing his bag in a corner of the room before entering the bridge. Vathamma sat in the captain's chair, with Nomi and Maliss standing behind her.

The hangar doors opened in front of them, rock and dirt falling past the opening as the cliff shook. The ship lurched and Torin grabbed a ceiling handle to steady himself, watching as his Master piloted the ship out of the bay and into the open air, immediately turning the ship upward into an ascent that took them further and further from the mists shrouding the planet until they had disappeared from view entirely. The Sith took her hands off the controls and charted out a course on the console in front of her, then pulled a lever to trigger the jump to hyperspace. The ship seemed to move before he did, and his stomach roiled as the array of stars stretched and warped, heralding the first of the several long jumps that would take them to Quesh.

"I'm gonna see what your drink selection is like." Maliss left the bridge and went to the central lounge.

Torin peered over the captain's chair at the astro-navigational charts displayed on the ship's console. "How long will this take?"

"Three days," his Master said with a sigh.

"Will we get there in time?" Nomi asked, wringing her hands together. Vathamma frowned, clearly unhappy with the idea of explaining herself to her former slave.

"Assuming that message was accurate, yes. The raw adrenal ingredients they're transferring require careful preparation and handling. Lord Andar's ship won't be making a short visit."

"Three days," Torin echoed. He looked back down the hallway, and could hear cabinets opening and closing as the Mandalorian searched for something alcoholic. Nearly everyone on board had tried to kill each other at least once. The prospect of three days on such a small ship had him uneasy.

"Whats the bed situation?" He said to his Master.

"The bed situation? The bed situation is there are three of them." She turned to Nomi. " _You_ can sleep in the cargo bay. Perhaps we can strip some insulation from the engine room for you to use as bedding."

Torin frowned. "She's not doing that. We can sleep in the same bed."

"Absolutely not!" The Sith said, her tentacles shaking as she swept her hand through the air. "I won't allow it."

"Why not?" Nomi asked pointedly, glaring at her.

The other woman searched her mind for an answer, mouth opening and closing as she sought the right words.

"Because... He can't be distracted! Control of the Force requires absolute focus." She pointed a finger at the Togruta. "Do you want to get him killed just because you couldn't go two nights without a warm body between your legs?"

Torin's jaw dropped. "Thats too far!"

Nomi clicked her teeth in disgust and left the bridge. Torin watched her leave, then glared back at his Master. She remained in the Captain's chair, facing the front window.

"Why do you treat her like that?" He said.

"She tried to _kill_ me."

" _I_ tried to kill you, remember?"

She turned to look at him, yellow eyes directed up thoughtfully. "I forgot about that," she said after a moment. They stared at each other in silence until the Sith cracked a grin. Torin found himself smiling in response, and both laughed. He leaned over her chair, putting a hand on her shoulder as their laughter filled the bridge.

She slid a hand atop his, gripping it tightly until they regained their composure. They found themselves staring at each other again, and Torin's heart skipped a beat. He pulled his hand from her shoulder quickly, looking away as the Sith continued to watch him.

"Someone drink with me."

Master and Apprentice turned to the hallway, where Maliss stood with two glasses pinched between the fingers of one hand, a bottle of Corellian rum held in the other.

"I'll leave that to you," Vathamma said to her apprentice. The Mandalorian walked back to the lounge, and as he turned to follow the Sith grabbed Torin's sleeve. "Make sure she doesn't get too drunk."

Torin followed Maliss into the lounge, a rectangular room with rounded corners that opened up into all other areas of the ship. Across from the bridge was a short stairwell that branched into two paths, one of which exited onto the ship's loading ramp while the other led to the engine room underneath the ship. On either side were hallways, the left leading to a bedroom and storage area, the right leading to another bedroom and a small meditation room.

A third sleeping quarters lay behind a doorway in the lounge, one that had already been claimed by the Mandalorian if the mess of armor and luggage piled within was any indication. The lounge itself was as much command center as rest area. A circular booth sat in a corner next to a kitchenette, the doors of which lay open from Maliss' rummaging. In the center of the room was a communications console complete with holographic display.

Torin scooted into the cushioned booth across from Maliss, ducking to avoid slamming his head on the overhead light. No sooner had he sat down than the woman had poured him a drink, and no sooner had he picked it up than she had downed hers. He sniffed at the glass, grimacing at the sickly sweet scent while he tried to decide if the liquid was booze or hull stripper. Regardless, it smelled like it would simply evaporate if he left it sitting for too long. The Mandalorian snorted in amusement as he downed the rum in one gulp like some foul medicine, after which he dropped the glass to the table and wrenched his head to the side.

"Good, huh?" The woman said, already in the process of refilling her glass. He pulled his away but she leaned over the table, following his glass with the bottle to give him an unwanted topping off. She took a few more shots in relative silence, though his own drink remained untouched for a time. The woman began talking the more she drank, recounting hard-fought and hard-won battles that were described in a narrative so disjointed he had to wonder if she were drunk for half of them. He remained quiet, nodding along whenever her wild eyes snapped to him to make sure he was listening to the important bits.

"You should've seen it," Maliss slurred, pouring herself another drink. As she put the bottle down Torin flicked his wrist, using the Force to slide her glass out from under her and replace it with his own empty one. She picked it up and poured the non-existent drink into her mouth, then slammed the glass to the table. "Wave after wave of orbital assaults, seismic masers, radiation bombs..."

He couldn't shake the feeling that this was a woman born in the wrong century. Some fluke of creation or cruel joke by the Gods had taken someone who should have fought and died in the Mandalorian wars, and plopped her down in the middle of a galaxy where her people had fallen into irrelevance.

They were still a fierce and respected warrior race, but the time where Mandalore shook the foundations of the galaxy had long passed. Now, even in their own war-stories they were secondary players, relegated to supporting roles in the larger tale of Republic versus Empire.

"I've seen it before. Once was enough." With a few sly turns of the hand he levitated the glass in front of him to a nearby sink, pouring out the rum and setting the glass down on the metal counter with a gentle _clink._

"If I could see it again—one more time." Her head lolled back on the cushion behind her, lips still moving as she whispered up at the ship's low ceiling. Looking at the poor woman, he almost wanted the universe to grant her pure, childlike wish.

She began snoring, and he went to help her out of the seat.

"Just one time," she muttered. He looked up at the face slumped down next to his, and lead the bulky woman across the lounge to her bedroom, then dropped her on the bed. He turned to leave, but stopped and yanked her boots off before turning off the overhead light and shutting the door behind him.

With a tired half-yawn he made for his own room, but stopped when he saw his Master leaned up against the wall with her arms crossed.

"Did that woman finally run out of war stories?" She said.

"They were... colorful," he said with a weak smile. "I guess she wasn't always a mercenary."

"Do you know _why_ she is working as a mercenary?"

He shrugged and glanced at the door. "She's a Mandalorian."

"And you think they're handed a Bounty Hunter's license on their sixteenth birthday?" Her lip curled in amusement. "Maliss Vizla used to be a low-level naval officer."

"In the Imperial Navy?"

"Indeed," she said with a nod. "For all of six hours. She was stripped of her battlefield commission before the glue on her rank pin had time to set."

"Let me guess." He narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms, mirroring her posture. "She refused an order to glass some defenceless city?"

The Sith laughed. "How adorable, always wanting to see the best in people." Her sly smile disappeared. "She gave the order for a massive assault against heavily fortified Republic positions. Imperial casualties were over ninety percent, and she could give no justification for her actions."

She went to put away the bottle of rum on the dining table, frowning when she saw how little was left.

"The _Sith_ were disturbed by her carelessness with human life. Can you imagine?" His Master walked towards the bridge, and Torin followed.

"So why isn't she in prison?"

"She escaped her court martial to eke out a meager living as a hired gun. A life you've seen the fruits of." She gestured back towards the empty table and the nearby bedroom. "Her bounties have taken on an increasingly dangerous nature, culminating in the attempted assassination of _two_ Sith Lords aboard a single vessel."

"Yeah, but..." He cast a wary glance at the mercenary's room and lowered his voice to a whisper. "She almost _did_ it."

"Maybe so, but that near-success was only a rehearsal for future failure." Vathamma sat down in the Captain's chair and looked back at Torin. "Why do you think she is following me?"

"You promised to pay her."

"I can't afford to pay her now, and she does not share the purity of conviction I have in my ultimate success. She believes this to be a doomed enterprise—she _wants_ to die, and she will drag you down with her if you allow it. You might think me to be the devil, but she is death itself."

The Sith left him to mull over her words, and he walked through the ship, passing through the lounge to the meditation room where Nomi was attempting to spread a blanket across the floor, becoming frustrated when it would not lie flat.

"I cannot stand that woman for another second," she spat.

Torin grimaced when he considered the next two _days_ worth of 'seconds' ahead of them. The Togruta stood up and Torin walked behind her, wrapping his hands around her waist and putting his mouth next to her ear.

"I know, but it's a small price to pay for getting your sister back, right?"

She put her hands over his and squeezed. "Yes."

He stepped back and turned her around. "How about you take the third bedroom? I'll sleep here."

Her anger returned and she shook her head. "No. If _that_ woman wants me to sleep here so badly, then I will sleep here."

Torin sighed and waved one hand in front of her face. "But that bed looked so inviting... and you were looking forward to staying away from Vathamma for the next few days."

Nomi nodded absent-mindedly, then yawned and wandered off into the hallway. Torin folded the blanket up and set it down in the corner of the room, then knelt down on the mat covering the small meditation room. He didn't bother shutting the door, as he found the drone of the engine and air recycler helped smooth out some of the sharper thoughts sticking in his mind. He shut his eyes and searched out that place within himself he had reached back on Odessen.

It was risky, and it was so soon after his last attempt, but how could he not give it another try after seeing what he had seen? He delved within that familiar blackness, but without his Master's guiding voice he quickly became lost in the endless void, simultaneously feeling as if he were hopelessly lost while having gone nowhere at all, groping around like a frightened child in a darkened room.

"Be careful."

He opened his eyes and turned around to see his Master standing in the doorway, legs crossed and shoulder pressed to the metal frame.

"I'm not going to blow the ship apart," he said, rising to his feet.

"Good to know, but that's not what I mean." The woman entered the room, picking up the edges of her robe as she removed her shoes and stepped bare-footed over the threshold. "I couldn't help but notice that slave girl walk straight by me without so much as a nasty look."

Torin rubbed his neck and looked off to the side. "I just gave her a little encouragement. It wasn't anything—"

She pressed a finger to his lips and withdrew it just as quickly. "Oh, I'm not judging. But you must be careful."

"Because of the strain it puts on me?" He looked down at her, becoming increasingly aware of how close she stood to him, but was too self-conscious to back away.

"No, using the Force to persuade lesser minds is something you will only become better at. But, it comes at a cost." She took another step towards him and he was forced to shuffle backwards, his foot teetering on the edge of the padded mat covering most of the room.

"A cost..." He thought for a moment. "Because of my condition?"

She pursed her lips and looked up thoughtfully. "No, it is much subtler than that. It is a human cost."

"What do you mean?" He swallowed and looked down at her, his heart pounding so hard he worried she might hear it.

"The more you push and pull on someone's heart, the more difficult it is to tell how much of their feelings are their own." She pressed a thin finger to the left side of his chest, following him as she forced him to take another step back. "Did they ever _truly_ love you? Are their feelings simply an extension of your own will?" She asked, whirling her other hand about in the air. "Eventually, it becomes impossible to think of them as equals at all. Mutual love becomes a lie at best, slavery at worst."

A bead of sweat rolled down the side of his head and his knees shook. He could hardly focus on her words with the woman's face so close to his, despite their difference in height. His back struck the cool metal wall and Vathamma pressed up against him, her breasts coming to rest on his ribs.

"Like right now," she said, dragging her hand down his chest and towards his waist. "Does your heart pound and your breath quicken because of my touch?"

He swallowed hard, no longer able to hide his blatant arousal.

"Or, is it because I'm using the Force to heighten your sympathetic nervous system?" She smiled devilishly and moved her hand back up to his chest, pushing on it with her open palm.

He frowned and grabbed her by the wrist, then pushed her away. "That's not funny."

"It wasn't _supposed_ to be funny," she replied with a serious expression, yanking her hand free of his grip. "It was supposed to be _enlightening_."

The fire raging in him diminished and he let out a slow breath, holding a hand to his chest. His Master turned around and began to leave.

"You were using the Force?" He said to her turned back.

"Who knows?" She replied, disappearing through through the doorway with one last wave of the hand.


	16. Green With Envy

Never before had Torin seen a planet that looked _poisonous._ Tendrils of yellow and orange ran across Quesh's brown surface; he could practically smell the sulfur hanging in the air, taste the heavy metals leached into the few toxic bodies of water mottling the surface.

"Do we really have to land on the planet itself?" He said to his Master, who stood near the back of the bridge putting on a gray flight suit covered in hoses and monitoring equipment. She thrust her hands into a pair of bulky gloves and wriggled her fingers, then picked up a visored helmet from the floor and held it under her arm.

"It can't be helped," she said. "Concocting a plausible reason to dock aboard Lord Andar's vessel is out of the question; our only hope is to slip aboard with the reinforcements cycling in from Quesh's surface."

"Can we get off his ship before the troop change is finished?" He asked her.

"We'll have to," she said. "Which is why we're not going to poke around to see if the man himself is there. Gaining access to the holocron room will be difficult enough."

Maliss had explained to them how she'd planted electronic surveillance aboard the Sith's ship, and Torin still had trouble reconciling the Mandalorian's ingenuity with her crass attitude. She had constructed a fake holocron around a wireless systems scanner, then slipped it in among relics being taken aboard the ship on one of its stops. Imperial military vessels were regularly swept for bugs, but even intelligence operatives were wary around Sith artifacts, partly out of superstition and partly from fear their tampering would offend the objects' owners. They avoided the room they were stored in completely, leaving Maliss' bug to do its work unmolested.

"Then let _me_ go aboard," Maliss said from the pilot's chair. She wore a nondescript shirt and jacket, the uniform of any freelance transport pilot the galaxy over. "I know the ship like the back of my hand."

Vathamma put on her flight helmet. "As much as I dislike the idea of leaving you and the _slave_ to your own devices, I want you on the ground in case we find ourselves in need of a... _diversion."_

Their ship entered the atmosphere, a light sprinkle of acid rain splattering the windows as they descended. On the surface ahead of them was a small military complex, little more than a starport and an Imperial garrison. A single vertical structure was ringed with forcefield-shielded docking bays; transports entered and exited as their interceptor approached, like insects leaving a hive. Quesh had no settlements beyond those temporary ones set up to harvest the raw materials used in adrenal production. The Empire and Republic had both set up operations on the planet for such a purpose, and were engaged in an uneasy planetary ceasefire mediated by the Hutts, who profited from supplying both sides. Off in the distance Torin could see one such Hutt-owned production complex seated amongst the gently rolling hills, pumping out smog and ash into an already polluted atmosphere.

They passed through a shimmering blue forcefield and into a small bay hardly any larger than their ship, one of the few left empty with the rest occupied by the transports ferrying personnel and supplies between the base and Lord Andar's flagship waiting in orbit above them. The four left the ship and assuaged the approaching customs official with a wave of the hand and a few Force-laden words of persuasion, then entered the starport proper. The circular hallway they were in ran around the entire structure, one of seven floors encircling an open space at the center of the building. The entire port hummed with activity; maintenance crews hauled cargo, clerks checked and double checked ship manifests, and exhausted-looking troops sat against walls as they waited for their assigned transports to arrive.

"I need to find someone in charge," the Sith whispered to her apprentice. "Slipping aboard will be simpler if we're added to the crew manifest for Andar's ship."

The four moved from the outer ring of the structure to the inner ring, a walkway that encircled the open space at the center of the structure.

"I'm still not clear on my cover story," he whispered back, then plucked at his gray Sith tunic. "I'm a student from the academy on Korriban, who got stranded in Hutt space?"

The Mandalorian scoffed and grabbed him by the shoulder. "And your piece of shit shuttle can't run the Republic blockade, so you need to hitch a ride." She turned to Vathamma. "This is why _I_ should go."

"Isn't that an unusual story?" He said to his Master, frowning. They entered a crowded elevator and began the descent to the ground floor. She inspected the workers crammed into the space alongside them, then turned back to her apprentice.

"Yes, which is why no one will _question_ it. Imperial officials don't question Sith if they can help it."

The lift reached the ground floor and they exited, emerging into an open lobby filled with more soldiers and laborers. A squad of helmeted troopers marched past them towards the building's exit, flanking a small group of downtrodden aliens wearing simple outfits and ventilator masks. Torin passed them before doing a double-take, then raced back and grabbed one soldier by the arm.

"Are these slaves?" He asked the man, who nearly threw Torin off before recognizing his distinctive outfit.

"Yes... my Lord."

Torin let the man go and steadied himself, debating how best to ask about Nomi's sister without potentially giving himself away.

"Where are they being taken?"

"Some Hutt by the name of Uragga, my Lord. Thing's got a palace near here; you might've seen it when you landed."

Torin recalled the smokestack-covered complex off in the distance on their final approach to the starport. "Are _all_ of the slaves being taken there?" Torin said.

"Yes, this is the last of them." The man hoisted his rifle in his arms and began to edge away as the group continued moving without him. "Apologies my Lord, but we've got a tight timetable to stick to." The group of slaves and soldiers continued to the airlock, and Torin hurried back to his companions.

"Why do you insist on drawing attention to yourself?" His Master hissed.

"Nomi's sister won't _be_ on Andar's ship," he said, glancing at the Togruta who listened intently. "They've sold them all to a Hutt who has a compound nearby."

"Then that's perfect!" She said in hushed tones. "They mean to draw us _there_. The ship itself will be no more guarded than usual."

"That's my sister you are talking about!" Nomi exclaimed, drawing a few glances from passersby. "I will not leave her here."

Torin swallowed and looked from her to his Master. "If it's as you say, you should be able to get Maliss' holocron on your own, right?"

She stared at him in silence for a few moments, her expression unreadable through the darkened visor of her helmet. "It's a _trap._ I doubt her sister is even there."

"Maybe you're right, but we still have to try," he said.

"I see I won't dissuade you from this idiocyanytime soon." She looked around at the troops picking up their equipment and preparing to board the next transport to the orbiting flagship. A gloved hand wrapped around Torin's wrist and pulled him towards her. "I don't want you dying for this one'ssister, understand?"

He pulled free before anyone could see an Imperial pilot manhandling a Sith. "I don't plan on letting _anyone_ die."

That answer didn't seem to particularly satisfy her, but she left the pair to go find a way aboard a troop transport while Torin and Nomi sought their own means of reaching the Hutt's palace. After a short survey of the starport lobby, his eyes landed on a man in a heavy, ankle-length coat making his way to the airlock as he strapped on a ventilator mask.

"Whoa, there!" Torin said, running in front of the man to block his path.

"Yeah?" The man said in a gruff voice, looking Torin up and down.

"You wouldnt happen to be going to Uragga the Hutt's home, would you?"

"That any of your business?" He frowned and crossed his arms.

"It is my business." Torin stepped closer and waved his hand in front of the man's face.

"Suppose it is your business..." He shifted his weight and unfolded his arms. "Yeah, I'm headin' there now. Why?"

Torin waved his hand again. "Because you'd _love_ to give us a ride."

* * *

Torin and Nomi persuaded—the old fashioned way—a customs official to lend them a pair of filtration masks, and followed the merchant out onto Quesh's surface. Every few moments Torin's hands traveled to the mask covering the lower half of his face, checking and re-checking the fit for any unwanted leaks. He clambered into the rear of the acid-rusted transport with Nomi, keeping their masks on even after the doors closed and their driver removed his own; neither quite shared his confidence in the air-tight status of his vehicle.

For a time they silently passed over flat land, then Torin felt the car tilt upwards as they began to ascend a gradual slope. Outside the cruiser's small windows Torin watched as they passed through a gate flanked by high turreted walls before coming to a stop in front of a single, massive, domed structure that dominated the factories and warehouses behind it. He exited the vehicle, stopping their driver as he climbed out beside them.

"Wouldn't it be better for you to come back tomorrow?" Torin said with a wave of the hand. "It's getting so late in the day."

The man squinted up at the sickly sky and shrugged. "Guess you're right." He slipped back into the vehicle and exchanged a friendly wave with the other two before driving back towards the starport. Torin entered the building, followed by Nomi, and was immediately struck by the inner luxury unhinted at by the garbage heap of a planet waiting outside. The antechamber was as much nightclub as it was feudal court. Throngs of aliens stood on either side of the hall, massed around towering pillars in groups as they waited their turn to petition the Hutt. Flags with incomprehensible designs of interlocking circles hung from the ceiling over a luxurious carpet that ran from the entryway, all the way to the large platform at the far end of the hall, atop which sat Uragga enclosed in a blue forcefield.

Torin's first thought upon seeing the gigantic slug perched atop the platform at the end of the hall was that some unwanted fauna, mutated by Quesh's pollution, had crawled out of the ooze into the palace and taken its place at the head of the room in some absurd inversion of the natural order. After disgust came a sort of grumbling admiration. It spoke to something about the Hutts that despite their awkward bodies, they had excelled in the galaxy. They were repulsive on a personal level but brokered deals worth billions of credits, and amassed vast mercenary armies despite their utter lack of martial prowess. The idea of a bipedal Hutt race that didn't look and smell like an open sewer was a terrifying prospect indeed. Luckily, the universe had seen fit to not dole out physicality and charm along with smarts and cunning when their race had first emerged from the swamps of Nal Hutta.

As he attempted to make his way down the hall, a silver-plated protocol droid stopped him with an outstretched hand. "State your purpose," it said in a modulated voice.

He opened his mouth to speak and looked around; nearby guards watched him carefully. "I'm here to see about purchasing a slave," he said after a moment of thought. Force persuasion wouldn't help him slip past an automated gatekeeper.

The droid remained silent for a short time; at the far end of the hall he saw the Hutt press a button on the console in front of him before appearing to speak into it.

"Surrender your weapons," the droid said. Torin grumbled internally while he reached behind his back and unhooked his blaster from his belt, then handed it to the droid. The droid motioned for the nearby guards who swarmed over and began patting both Torin and Nomi down, the latter of whom objected in animated fashion at the aliens running their hands over her, slapping them away as they finished patting down her loose clothing. While they checked Torin with equal thoroughness, he closed his eyes and focused on the vibroblade hilt stowed in his sleeve, using the Force to slide it around his jacket as hands searched out any remaining weaponry. Satisfied, the guards stepped back.

"You may proceed," the droid said, stepping aside as it gestured towards the Hutt's throne.

More guards flanked the corpulent creature, but not uniformed ones; they were mercenaries, of all different races and wearing myriad armor that would have made them look rag-tag were they not so clearly dangerous as individuals. A Rodian and a Trandoshan watched him and Nomi as they approached, hands gripping the necklines of their bulky armor. The Hutt, for his part, did not pay his guests any mind. He stared idly off into the distance, scanning the noisy room and perhaps making note of who to kill and who to promote. At the Hutt's side stood a Falleen, the only other individual within his personal force field; she wore a purple dress that covered the front of her neck, which she rubbed with her hand as Torin approached before leaning in towards the Hutt to whisper into his ear.

The Hutt spoke in a guttural drone, every syllable blending into the next.

"Great Uragga welcomes you to his home," the green-skinned woman said, apparently having no issues making sense of the Hutt's speech. Her voice was a harsh whisper, like she'd spent too much time inhaling the noxious fumes covering the planet.

"Thank you for seeing me so quickly, _Great Uragga,"_ Torin replied with a barely contained sneer. "I am Vetram Tir."

"Vetram Tir, is it?" The Falleen said. "My name is Isatryn Sol." She stared at him intently, and he couldn't help but feel that she was looking to have provoked some reaction.

"A pleasure to meet you," he replied with a smile.

The woman's face relaxed and the Hutt's frog-like tongue lolled out as he spoke again.

"My Master wonders why an Imperial, a _Sith_ no less, would come to purchase one of the slaves they had just sold," the Falleen said.

"Even Sith have their feuds, as I'm sure an esteemed member of the Hutt Cartel can understand." His attention was initially pointed at the listless Hutt, but he found that his words were increasingly directed to the courtesan. "While Lord Andar doesn't share my views, he does share my tastes." He gestured to Nomi standing a few feet behind him. "He sold you a Togruta; I'd like to purchase her."

"Oh?" Isatryn said. "That is a very specific request."

Torin shrugged. "What can I say? Their beauty is captivating." He turned to the side and ran one of Nomi's tentacles through his hand, drawing an annoyed frown from the woman.

"Its funny..." the courtesan said, tapping her chin. "That Togruta, she looked very much like this one. Like a _sisters,_ almost."

"As if all Togruta look alike!" Torin's hand went to tug at his shirt collar but he withdrew it and gestured outwards with both arms. "I expected better from someone who spent their day in such a multicultural environment."

A few of the aliens threw sidelong glances as Torin, and Isatryn stood silent for a few moments. "I suppose you're right," she said, looking over the Togruta standing before her.

"I'd like to see this slave before I pay for her." Torin had no money to buy her freedom with, but that was a bridge to cross once they'd actually found the Togruta.

The Falleen leaned towards the Hutt as he mumbled. "My Master says that credits do not interest him."

Torin frowned. What interested a Hutt, if not money? "Then what _does_ interest him?"

"Barter," she responded quickly. "A trade."

"I don't have much in the way of possessions besides this slave." He looked back at Nomi. "And I've grown attached."

The Falleen raised an eyebrow. "That's not very becoming of a Sith."

He shrugged. "I'm a bit of an iconoclast."

"Then you may consider yourself lucky that my Master does not desire another Togruta. No, he has something else in mind."

The Hutt pointed to the door, speaking animatedly.

"He knows who you are, _Torin Val."_ She frowned, mirroring the Hutt's pride and anger. "And you may consider yourself doubly blessed that though you are valuable, you know the whereabouts of someone far more valuable."

He swallowed, casting worried glances at the aliens closing in from either side of the grand hall.

"You've made a _serious_ misunderstanding." He inched his hand towards his belt before remembering that he'd already surrendered his blaster.

"No, it is _you_ who misunderstand," she said. "I will be clear. Surrender your Master, and you may leave here with your two alien toys. Remain defiant, and you will have whatever knowledge you hold plucked from your skull."

He glanced behind him towards the door, a good fifty feet away with two dozen armed and ready mercenaries in the way, then turned back to Isatryn.

"That would be a tempting offer, if I believed one bit of it." He grabbed Nomi by the arm and held her close, then reached up with his other hand and snapped his fingers. A wave of force spread outwards, shooting in all directions in a wave, like a boulder had been dropped into a still pond from some great height. The blast threw the mercenaries backwards, sending them flying against the floor and walls, armor banging against stone and weapons falling from their hands. He snapped his fingers again; those few aliens who had managed to scramble onto their hands and knees were thrown back again, pushed away from the blasters and staves they were reaching for.

Torin let Nomi roll from his grip and turned to the side, waving a hand at the wall to his right in a broad sweeping flourish. A gust of air hit his enemies like a charging bull, crunching bones and bending steel. He swung about and repeated the process on the left wall, reducing the already crumpled heap of aliens to a pile of casualties. Turning back to the Hutt, he marched forward and stared him in his glassy eyes.

"Are you going to give me what I want? Or do I have to drop this building on your cage?"

Beside the Hutt, Isatryn clapped and walked in front of the Hutt. Torin watched her uneasily, then took a few steps back while he motioned for Nomi to do the same.

"Magnificent." She used the control console in front of the Hutt to switch off the forcefield, then put her hands on her hips.

"All we want is the Togruta," Torin said.

"She's not here," the Falleen said with a sneer. "And you should be more worried about _yourself!"_

Isatryn leapt from the platform, reaching one hand behind her back. Torin stumbled back in surprise and used the Force to lift up the thick rug at his feet, curling it up into the air as a makeshift shield while he slid the hilt of his vibrosword down his sleeve and into his waiting palm. The blade extended as his fingers wrapped around it, just in time; purple fire sliced through the carpet, followed by the Falleen who bore down on Torin, lightsaber poised to strike again.

The purple saber struck his blade with all the force of the woman's jump, sending them both flying back from one another as burning bits of rug floated around the pair. Isatryn slid one foot back, crouching low with her blade held behind her head pointed towards Torin, her free hand extended outward as if daring him to attack. He held his sword in both hands and gave the woman another look over.

"You're Sith?" He said.

The woman moved as if to jab but then spun around, slicing the blade at him like some Twi'lek dancer. He blocked her blow and then took another step back, giving the woman space as he examined her form.

"I am... and I've been waiting so long to meet you."

"That's flattering." He pushed on her with the force but she met his blow with one of her own, then advanced again with long thrusts of her lightsaber mixed with broad sweeps that nearly sliced him open with each spin of her body. Torin met her blow for blow, sparks flying as his Cortosis-coated blade was pushed to its limits. She spun again and he blocked, then, thinking he was safe to strike, opened himself up to attack before nearly being cut open by a second purple saber held in her other hand. She had grabbed it from her waist without him even noticing, and began to assault him at a dizzying pace that he struggled to match.

She swept in front of her with both blades; Torin leapt out of reach, then used the Force and his own strength to propel himself back forward, bringing his sword down from overhead. The Falleen gasped in surprise and brought both blades up to block the blow, stopping his sword half a foot above her head. Torin pushed down on her crossed sabers, making the Falleen's knees buckle under her.

"The problem with two lightsabers..." he gritted his teeth, nearly pushing the Falleen's sabers down onto her head. "You've still only got two hands."

Isatryn looked past him to see Nomi pointing a blaster rifle at her, finger on the trigger.

"S-stop!" The Falleen shouted, her voice cracking.

Torin's muscles relaxed and he blinked in confusion as he withdrew his sword. The Falleen scrambled backwards, looking from the frozen Nomi to Torin before re-approaching the young man. Her fear turned to anger, and she put away one of her lightsabers.

"Y-you think you beat me?" She stammered, circling him like a shark. He knew that they had just been fighting, but could see no reason to continue. "You lost when you put yourself in a room with me." She poked his chest, making him wobble back on his rigid feet. "Did you enjoy your taste of my experiments in Sith alchemy?"

He recalled the poison he'd accidentally ingested at the Balmorran embassy.

"Perhaps we can start with more of that." She looked him in the eyes and held her lightsaber beside his head. "Or maybe with something more visceral?" She edged the blade closer, scorching the skin and hair along the side of his head with burning plasma. "I have all these ideas in my head, but they seem so inadequate now that you are _here."_ The pain should have been unbearable, but he did not move an inch. The smell of burning tissue stung his nostrils, and he could feel his body growing weak from shock even as his mind maintained its placidity.

Behind Isatryn, the Hutt who had remained silent up until then was shaking his head and blinking rapidly, as if awaking from some daydream. He looked around in shock at the incapacitated mercenaries lining his hall, then to the Sith in front of him. He shouted in Huttese and jabbed the control console on his throne. Doors opened on either side of the wall behind his throne, and from out of them stepped two spider-like droids twice the height of a man. Their cylindrical heads swiveled around as they maneuvered in front of the Hutt with a threatening robotic whine. Isatryn swung around to face the new threat, just in time to block the blaster fire coming from the droids.

Torin watched the woman's purple blade deflect blaster bolt after blaster bolt, until one stray projectile struck the forcefield generator behind the Hutt. The explosion threw Isatryn, Nomi, and Torin onto their backs. His head hit the floor and his ears were ringing, but his mind was clear. He looked up to see the droids still firing at Isatryn, who blocked their attacks from where she lay on the ground. Uragga was in pieces scattered around his platform, though his immense tail remained relatively intact.

Torin scrambled to his feet and ran for the door, pulling Nomi up with him as he went. They strapped on their masks and passed through the airlock out of Uragga's palace, skipping the airlock cycle and allowing Quesh's poisonous atmosphere to flood into the building.

* * *

Maliss was jerked from her stupor by an explosion outside the starport. She ran to a window and peered out, scanning the horizon until she found the source of the blast. Black smoke billowed up into the sky from Uragga's palace, adding to the surrounding smokestacks to further darken the acrid sky.

"All troops to their assigned transports!" Came a voice over the loudspeaker. A flurry of movement followed as every man and woman in a uniform dropped what they were doing and rushed for the stairs leading to the main floor. Armored speeders awaited them on the pad outside, which they would use to respond to what they probably assumed was a Republic attack on an Imperial-aligned member of the Hutt Cartel.

Looking around, her eyes fell on a cart carrying orange canisters nearly half her height; the symbols on the side marked them as adrenal compounds. Extremely useful for soldiers who needed to fight longer and harder, but as they say—the dose makes the poison.

She smiled and ran to the other side of the cart, gripping the handlebars before leaning her weight into it and pushing it down the hall. She picked up speed, soldiers and mechanics jumping out of her way as they stared in confusion at the tall woman racing at breakneck speed towards the center of the structure. She tore past a corner and bore down on the center of the room; only a simple railing stood between her and the open space running several stories down the center of the starport. The handles slipped from her grasp as she let go of the heavy cart. It crashed through the railing, shattering glass and snapping metal before falling seven floors to the lobby.

First came a loud crash, then a chorus of screams as red gas billowed upwards, spreading outward into each floor it passed in its rapid ascent. She peered down at the canisters, all but one of which had broken open on impact. Imperial troops passing through the lobby on their way out the main door lay on the ground, writhing in agony. No soldier stationed on Quesh wanted to wear a filtration helmet when they didn't have to, a decision they would have regretted if they weren't busy trying to keep from hacking up their lungs.

"By the _Emperor,_ what happened?"

Maliss turned to see an Imperial officer circling the broken railing, staring down in shock at the field of death quickly spreading throughout the building. She grabbed him by the scruff of the collar and looked him in the eye.

"What?" He said, glancing nervously from the seven-story fall to the woman holding him by his jacket.

She heaved him over the edge without a word, then watched the man's fall until his impact with the tiled ground stopped his screams. It was a merciful death, compared to the people trying to breathe through the blood pooling in their own lungs.

"Breathe it in, boys!" She shouted downward, wafting the air towards her nose as she took a deep breath inward. The subtle chemical tinge in the air told her that the aerosolized adrenals had begun to reach the top floor. She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a pair of small metal spheres, then stuffed them into her nostrils before taking an experimental sniff to make sure that the filters were working. She'd undergone immunotherapy treatment for every poison and toxin this side of the galaxy, but even she didn't relish the thought of _that_ much concentrated adrenal in _this_ small of a space.

Walking back into the outer hallway, she stepped over corpses and half-dead travelers, kicking away a few desperate hands that clutched at her ankles as she inspected the thoroughness of her improvised plan. Subduing an entire Imperial garrison was a tall order, but she'd managed—the rest was up to those other three.

* * *

Wind and dust whipped Torin in the face, aggravating his wound as Nomi piloted a speeder across a plain away from Uragga's palace. He clutched a hand to the burn, trying to keep the filtration mask still while he felt every single bump and divot that passed under the cruiser's sensitive repulsor jets.

"Hold on!" Nomi shouted, her voice muffled by her mask and the roar of the vehicle. She slowed down as they rounded a curve into a gully nestled into the landscape, then punched the jets again, making his head whip back with the force of the acceleration. The starport had disappeared from view, and he could only hope that they avoided whatever response the Imperials decided to muster for the disturbance they'd undoubtedly taken notice of.

The speeder swerved around boulders and rocky outcroppings, nearly taking the siding with it on a few of the closer calls. He was thankful that Nomi was there to pilot, as he could hardly stay conscious, let alone navigate the veritable minefield of natural hazards that lay between them and their destination. An all-too-familiar darkness crept into the edges of his vision and he slapped at the side of his head, setting his wound afire and bringing him fully back to wakefulness. He sat up straight in his seat, grimacing underneath his mask while he used his pain to anchor himself.

They left the gully and ascended a gradual slope, veering right as they came back onto flat land.

"There it is!" Nomi pointed at the starport with her arm stretched across the wheel. As they drew closer he could make out the same vehicles that had been there when they'd left; there didn't seem to be a single transport missing.

"I don't think they raised the alarm," he rasped to Nomi. He gestured to a space out of view of the entrance where they could stash the speeder. She parked and they exited, then walked at a brisk pace towards the airlock.

"Stay in front of me," he said, hiding his still-fresh wound with his hand.

She nodded and pressed the button for the airlock, then stepped inside and breathed a sigh of tentative relief as she went to remove her mask. She gasped and pulled her hands away, then shook Torin by the shoulder just as he prepared to remove his own ventilator.

"Look!" She pointed at the window running alongside the right wall of the airlock, where a white-suited customs official sat slumped in her desk chair, head rested on her shoulder and foam dripping from her open mouth. A red cloud covered the floor, forming droplets on the window like some hellish morning dew. The airlock cycle completed and the inner door opened, revealing a hallway strewn with fallen troops, personnel, and travelers. Torin and Nomi walked past them to the lobby, making their way to the lift on the wall of the central room. The Togruta went to press the button beside the lift, but pulled back when a chime sounded out and the door slid open. Torin pointed his open palm at the door, lowering it when he saw the Mandalorian leaning against the side wall of the elevator's interior.

"What the hell happened to you?" She wheezed, speaking through her exhalations to avoid drawing in any of the poisonous gas.

He shook his head and ignored her, still holding his hand to his head as he faced the exit door on the other side of the elevator. The door they had entered through closed and they ascended to the seventh floor, then walked through another corridor full of death until they came to their ship's airlock. Once inside, all three were finally able to remove their breathing apparatuses as an upbeat chirp signaled the all-clear. Torin peeled off his mask, grimacing as the edge tugged at his melted flesh.

Vathamma stood near the ship's ramp, her own mask still in hand. Vapor steamed off the underside of the interceptor, hissing as if the ship were in as much a hurry to leave as the rest of them. As he staggered towards her his strength finally gave out, his hand slipping from his face and moving in front of him to stop his fall. Nomi and Maliss grabbed him under the arms and helped him up the ramp.

"What happened?" The Sith exclaimed.

"That's what I asked," Maliss said.

They ascended the staircase to the lounge, and Nomi turned back to Vathamma. "There was a woman waiting for us—a Sith."

Maliss sat him down on a bench and leaned him against the wall while Nomi tossed the ship for a first aid kit.

"I see I was right about it being a trap." Vathamma pulled his hand from his face to examine the distinctive lightsaber burn underneath.

"Is this really the time?" Nomi squatted beside him and began tending to the wound, pressing a dermal applicator to the side of his face, drawing a pained wince from Torin as dozens of tiny syringes pressed into the scorched flesh.

"It is _exactly_ the time," the Sith replied, looking at her apprentice. "This is the consequence of abandoning our mission in favor of a fool's errand."

The pain of his wound subsided, and already he could feel scar tissue beginning to form, sped up by the cocktail of drugs and chemicals injected into him.

"It wasn't a _fool's errand,"_ he said in a weak voice.

"Oh, please." His Master rolled her eyes. "You and I both know that her sister is dead."

Nomi slapped the first aid kit onto its side, sending bandages and pill bottles scattering onto the floor. She stood to her feet and spun around to face the Sith. "She is not dead!"

Vathamma eyed the angry Togruta silently, then watched as she stormed off to her bedroom and shut the door behind her.

"Take him to my bedroom," the Sith said to Maliss. "He can sleep there tonight."

The Mandalorian hoisted the drugged man up and walked him towards the wing of the ship opposite the Togruta's room, then dropped him on the bed before making her way to the bridge where the Sith was busy piloting the ship out of the docking bay.

"Tell me you at least got the holocron," the mercenary said.

The Sith leaned back in her chair and frowned. "No, they moved the holocrons. _All_ of them."

"So this was a useless trip." Maliss rubbed the back of her neck and hummed in frustration.

"No, because I know where they took them—and they have no reason to suspect we're coming." She punched a course into the ship's flight computer.

"This job is turning into a mess," the Mandalorian said with a deep frown. "Makes me wonder how much of that is because of you—"

She was interrupted by the Sith, who used the Force to throw her against the rear wall and hold her by the throat.

"It turned into a mess because he listened to that _slave_ instead of his Master! I will no longer be second-guessed!" Her hand and voice shook with barely-contained rage. "Is that understood?"

"That depends," the other woman choked out.

"On what?" The Sith demanded, releasing her grip on Maliss' throat.

The Mandalorian rubbed her own neck before running a finger down the Sith's chest and smiling. "Got any more of that Force choking left in you?"

Vathamma slapped the woman's hand away in disgust and pointed at the navigation console. "Get us there."

* * *

The prospect of sleep had become a cruel joke. Every time it seemed to come within Torin's grasp, he'd relive the heat and light searing his skin, melting flesh and burning hair. Pressing his hand to the side of his face would replace pain with pressure, but by that time he would be wide awake, and the cycle would start all over again. Between the nerve damage, pain killers, and medigel he couldn't feel the wound at all, but that didn't stop his mind from latching onto the trauma and holding it over him like some executioner's sword ready to drop should he dare to slip into the dreamworld. Eventually he contented himself with simply losing himself in the featureless ceiling above him in the best imitation of a restful sleep he could manage.

The bedroom door slid open and the sharp metal echoes of the ship's interior brought him back to reality. Blinding light momentarily illuminated the outline of the woman standing in the doorway, then dimmed as the door shut behind her. The room was once again silent, save for the intruder's soft footsteps.

"Nomi?" he said, tossing off the covers and sitting up in bed. The dark figure walked to his bedside and leaned over, then pushed him gently back down to the bed by the chest.

"No," his Master said. Her amber eyes hovered in the darkness, catching what little light slipped in under the door and glowing like two smoldering fires. She sat on the edge of the bed and leaned towards him, pressing her lips to his own for a short moment before pulling back and remaining still, as if to measure his reaction. There was no reaction, no movement; he froze, unable to process what was happening as she slid one leg over him and straddled his hips.

His hands shot downward and gripped her robed thighs, fumbling for purchase in the pitch black room. "What are you—"

A pressure on his throat stopped his shouting. Using the Force to cut off his breathing was something she hadn't done to him in quite awhile, but he still knew the feeling well. Though he couldn't see it, he could picture her clenched fist extended towards his neck.

"Sshhh..." she said, releasing her hold on his airway. "Someone will hear."

The pressure shifted to his wrists and he felt them being pulled backwards, up and away from Vathamma as they were pinned to the wall behind his head. His wrists were pressed together and the invisible grip merged into a single force that shackled his hands. The rustling of clothes and a creak of the bed came as the Sith lifted her robe, pressing the insides of her folded legs to his sides. A hand traveled downward, searching and grasping until it found what it was looking for.

She pressed herself to him and gasped at the same time his breath caught in his throat. Her Force grip had long ago left his throat, and there was nothing stopping him from speaking, but he didn't say a word. His eyes readjusted to the darkness, and he could just barely make out the woman seated atop him. She remained still, becoming used to the feeling of having him inside her as her chest heaved under her thin black robe. One hand was extended outwards towards his own, keeping him restrained, while her other hand remained where their two bodies joined.

The bed creaked again as Vathamma began moving, raising her body up and moving ever so slightly forward before pushing her buttocks back down to his hips, then repeating the motion again. The woman was small, but she felt oppressively heavy. The warmth of the room had become a stifling heat, pressing pins and needles to his skin and making an itch crawl up the fresh scar on his face. Sweat dripped from his forehead, catching in his eyebrows before rolling further down and stinging his eyes. His breath, which had been heavy and labored, became a frantic effort interrupted only by the nervous swallowing and involuntary grunts escaping his mouth.

Turning his face away from the woman gyrating on top of him, he looked towards the door past which he swore he could hear footsteps. The ship's inner workings, which before had been a pleasant constant hum, turned into a roar that would have had him squeezing his hands to his ears, were he not restrained. What if Nomi came in to check on him? What if she _saw_ this?

His Master's own noises became louder as well, and both of her hands moved to his stomach while she leaned over him and bounced at an increasingly frenzied pace. Free of her hold, his hands shot out and went to push her back before stopping just short of her knees. He clenched his fists and lowered his arms, pressing them to the bed while he tried in vain to bury himself into the bed as well, but the woman's warmth followed him no matter how he squirmed.

Vathamma fell atop him, pressing her soft breasts to his chest and brushing his lips with hers. He wrenched his face to the side, squeezing his eyes shut as the woman's hands moved to his shoulders and her moans assaulted his eardrums. The scent of her hair was overpowering, a cloying sweetness that had his stomach roiling more than it already had been. A rising sensation in his abdomen had him bucking his hips into hers no matter how much he tried to resist, and he bit his lips to keep from making a noise even as the Sith made no such attempts to stay quiet. She cried out, rolling her buttocks on top of him a few more times before both of their bodies finally came to rest.

He did not turn to face her, but instead kept his face turned towards the wall beside him and his eyelids closed tightly. Her hands pushed off of him and she sat up, sitting atop him for what seemed like an eternity before shuffling off of him and standing up from the bed. The metal floor creaked with her foot falls, and he felt a light gust of air as the door opened and closed. With his Master finally gone, he turned to face the ceiling and opened his eyes to the darkness, then crossed his forearms over his eyes.


	17. The Hole In Everything

Vathamma awoke from her sleep on a bench in the ship's lounge and entered the bridge. Maliss sat in the captain's chair, Torin in the co-pilot's. Both gave a brief glance to the approaching woman.

"Where's the other one?" Vathamma asked, noting the Togruta's absence.

"Hasn't left her room," the Mandalorian said.

Voss was visible outside the bridge's windows, an orange planet wreathed with white clouds. Like Quesh the planet had both a Republic and Imperial presence, but they would be setting the ship down far from the watchful eyes of either group.

Vathamma turned from the approaching planet to her Apprentice, who stared blankly forward, his eyes refusing to meet hers. "Get us as close as you can to those coordinates," she said to the mercenary before walking behind Torin and placing her hands on his shoulders. She felt him jump slightly in his seat, his muscles tightening and body going rigid under her grip. He remained silent, and Maliss glanced at them uneasily before turning her attention back to the task of bringing their ship through Voss' atmosphere.

Eventually the Sith let her hands slip from his body and stepped back, watching as he let out a quiet sigh of relief and relaxed his shoulders. Without a word she left the bridge and walked to her bedroom. She stepped inside and let the door close behind her, then let loose a scream that shook the walls of the sound-proofed room and sent metal furniture clanging against the ground. As the last of the air left her lungs she leaned forward, then closed her eyes and took a deep breath in through her nostrils, standing up straight while she took a minute to compose herself. A gentle rumble moved through the ship, indicating they had set down on Voss, and she could hear the hiss of hydraulics below her as the ship's ramp extended.

The bedroom door opened and she left, the scattered furniture inside the only evidence of the anger she had unleashed. On her way to the stairwell she passed through the central room, where Maliss and Torin stood waiting.

"The holocron is being held by a single Voss mystic," the Sith said to the pair. "If all goes well, I won't be long. If it goes poorly... I still won't be very long."

She entered the stairwell, but stopped when she heard her Apprentice speak.

"I'm going too," he declared. She turned back in surprise and gave a nod of acknowledgement, then left the ship.

* * *

Much like the planet they had departed the day before, Voss's sky was a deep orange. Unlike Quesh, the color was not from pollution or toxic fumes. The entire planet was shrouded in eternal autumn, its trees fiery shades of red and orange, its long grasses waves of gold that shimmered with the stiff breeze. Miles from civilization, the air was crisp, clean; a welcome change of pace from the odorous stench of Quesh and the mustiness of Vathamma's ship. Surrounding the flat patch of grassland they had set the interceptor down on were mountain ranges, the largest of which lay directly ahead of them. A footpath, set with stone steps on the steeper bits, wound up and away into the snow-misted peaks.

"This is as close as we can get," his Master said. "I hope you enjoy walking."

They walked across the field and began their ascent, Torin trailing behind his Master at a good distance. No sooner had they left the clearing than he regretted coming along. He wasn't quite sure why he had insisted on doing so in the first place; it certainly wasn't because he wanted to spend more time with her. Maybe it was to prove to himself that he wasn't afraid of her. Maybe it was to prove that to _her._

She glanced back occasionally as they walked, the silence between them growing, though only he seemed to be bothered by it. His Master, for her part, appeared to be giving what had happened the previous night far less thought than he was. Nor did she seem particularly interested in pushing his buttons, like she'd been so fond of doing in the past.

He watched the path in front of him to avoid meeting her eyes, but looked up when he heard the crack of ice and the shuffle of snow. A bit of white powder fell to his feet, and above him a stone the size of his head hung in mid-air. With a startled gasp he scrambled ahead, then turned back to see that the rock had not moved one bit. It simply hung in mid-air, rotating slowly.

His Master stopped and turned to look at him. "What's gotten into you?"

"That rock..." He pointed at the floating boulder.

"The Dark Side is strong here," she said with a dismissive flip of the hand, then continued walking. "In such places one tends to see miraculous things... or _frightening_ things, depending on your constitution."

He frowned and resumed following her. The Dark Side may have been strong, but he couldn't feel a thing. Never had he been able to sense the power a place or person held, let alone the subtleties of its alignment. It wasn't a question of his own power, either. He had performed feats with the Force he never thought possible, but such a simple thing as detecting its presence still somehow eluded him.

They left a narrow canyon and emerged onto a cliffside path, one side open to the air, the other pressed up against the sheer rock face. The trail eventually led them onto a flat stone disc dug into the side of the cliff. Fifty feet in diameter, it was etched with constellations and the orbits of planets. Voss was likely among them, but Torin didn't have the knowledge or energy to try and identify it.

What attracted his attention far more than the man-made construct was the natural sight opposite the cliff face. Dozens of stones of all shapes and sizes floated in the air, like some unseen presence had halted them in the midst of an avalanche. Past the unnaturally hanging rocks he could see the mountains stretched out below them, jagged peaks stabbing through the clouds like spears. It should have been an awe-inspiring sight, but he couldn't enjoy it, not with his mind weighed down with such burdensome thoughts.

The questions in his mind didn't have to stay there, he knew that. He could _ask_ his Master. That's what teachers were for, after all—but there was another question that had lay heavy on his shoulders for the entire walk, and he couldn't think of anything else until it was answered.

"Why did you do that?" He said, stopping partway across the platform.

"What are you talking about?" She looked back briefly, but didn't stop.

"You _know_ what I'm talking about." His voice shook as much as his fists. He'd expected some poisonous retort or dismissive remark, but her feigned ignorance hurt far more. Remaining silent, she neared the stairs leading up and away from the open space, and Torin shoved his hand towards her, projecting a burst of air. Despite his anger and the supposed power of this place, he felt weak—far weaker than he had on Quesh—but the strength he had summoned was more than enough to bowl the woman over onto the steps in front of her. She looked back in anger and pushed herself to her feet, then turned to face him.

"I asked you a question," he said through clenched teeth.

Her yellow eyes narrowed to slits. "I won't explain myself."

His insides burned with anger. Once he had wanted this woman dead—that seemed like a lifetime ago. Now, he simply wanted to hurt her.

He pushed forward with both hands, willing the Force through his open palms as he stomped forward with one foot. His Master did the same, her own attack completely overtaking his and sending him flying onto his back, knocking the air from his lungs. She marched over, her feet pounding on the stone.

"All of your pain, all of your suffering is because you won't _do_ as I _say!"_ She stopped in front of him and pointed at his face as he rolled onto his stomach with a groan, pushing himself onto his hands and knees. "And for what? An alien _whore_ and her sister?"

With a sharp breath in he shot up and tackled her to the ground, wrapping his hands around her wrists as he straddled her chest. "That's called _love,_ but what would you know about that?" He released her wrist and cocked his fist back, then swung it at her cheek with a hard _smack._ Her anger flared into utter rage. She reached her free hand out, strangling him with the Force and lifting him off of her. His hands clawed at his throat as his feet scraped the ground, struggling to find a means to support himself against the hangman's noose choking the life from him while the Sith rose to her feet.

"You think I don't know what _love_ is?" The cliff shook with the force of her shout, snow falling onto the platform from the ledges above. "I have loved _and_ lost!"

Blood pooled in his face and wet choking noises escaped his throat. The Sith looked murderous, and for the first time in a long time he was seriously worried that she would kill him. A vein throbbed in her forehead, and her clawed hand shook as it squeezed the life from him. Just as he thought he would reach the end of his short but eventful life on the side of that mountain, her face relaxed and her grip loosened, her expression becoming tired as Torin fell to his knees and gasped for air. His Master walked to the edge of the platform and sat down, cradling her head in her hands.

"Just go," she said, her voice cracking. "Leave. You're more trouble than you're worth."

He stood up and looked at the path down, back to the ship; then up, towards whatever awaited them in the mountain peaks above. With a wheezing grunt he staggered to his feet, taking in a deep breath of mountain air to clear his head. Maybe in her own twisted way, she did know what love is; or maybe he was just making excuses for a woman who, once again, had done something nearly unforgivable.

"You're a manipulative bitch," he said, walking towards her slowly. "Who drives away _anyone_ who is in a position to help you." She looked back at him, nostrils flaring and brow furrowed in anger. "That's why you have no allies, and that's why you lost everything." She snapped her head away as he drew closer, staring off into the distant mountains. "So now you're stuck with nothing but an Apprentice who who doesn't listen."

"Welcome to rock bottom," he said, sitting down at her right side. The wind quieted and the mountain became still, save the hovering rocks floating all around them.

After a moment of quiet, she turned her face to his ever so slightly. "At least it has a nice view."

He unclasped his hands from his lap and moved the left one over hers where it lay on the stone, but pulled back at the last moment and pressed his hand down beside hers. "Yeah," he said, a smile flickering across his face.

"You said you loved and lost," Torin said, turning to his Master. She frowned at him recalling what she'd let slip in the heat of the moment. "What happened to your first apprentice?"

She exhaled sharply, a sigh of frustration and pent up resentment. "He showed mercy in battle, and received death in return. This galaxy, these _people..._ they will eat you alive if you let them. That is why you have to be strong."

He nodded, running a hand over the scar on his face as she turned to look at him.

They sat in silence for a time before the Sith spoke again. "I can't heal you."

His wound throbbed and he withdrew his hand. "Because I need to learn a lesson."

She shook her head. "No, I mean I _can't."_

"But back on Yavin IV—"

"You healed yourself," she said.

"How?" He turned to her, his eyes wide.

"I don't know." She fiddled with her hands in her lap, then squinted off into the orange horizon and its myriad rocky peaks. "When I found you outside the temple, you were draining the very life from the plants and animals around you. I opened your shirt, and your wound was gone."

"I _drained_ it?" The blood rushed from his face, and a chill set into his bones. "How?" He had hoped to hear that in his death throes, he had tapped into some blessed energy—not that he had fed on the planet like a parasite.

"Again, I don't know. Such things are possible with the Dark Side of the Force, but not by accident... and not by neophyte Apprentices."

He swallowed hard and hunched over, staring at his feet dangling off of the ledge.

"Come," she said, standing up. "We shouldn't tarry."

He stood up and walked away from the ledge, then followed the Sith as they continued their ascent up the mountain. Open air once again gave way to a narrow path beset by rocky cliffs on both sides, though the scenery had changed somewhat. Unlike the trail leading away from the foothills, the portion of the path they had come to was positively lush, overgrown with shrubs and flowering grasses that flourished from every available crack and crevice in the stone around them.

"We are getting close," his Master said. "I can feel the Force growing stronger." They passed under a small tree that shook gently with the breeze coming down the mountain pass. Torin stopped and looked up, mouth agape as curled orange leaves unfurled with the wind, giving off thousands of tiny spores that floated past them down the walkway.

"I wouldn't have thought a place strong in the Dark Side could have _this,"_ he marveled, brushing the pollen off of his coat.

"Accepting the Dark Side means embracing life, for all its ugliness." his Master said from the steps a short distance ahead. "Just as embracing life means accepting death."

They crested a flight of stairs and found that they had neared the top of a mountain that, only a moment ago, seemed to have no end. Ahead of them was a stone temple nestled in between two snow-capped peaks. The light-brown bricks of the structure contrasted sharply against the gray slate of the surrounding rock; Torin imagined the poor monks who had built it carrying it up from the foothills, piece by piece, and immediately the soreness in his own calves lessened.

More vegetation, of all possible shapes and colors, grew along the path and around the temple, like someone had transplanted a jungle atop the frigid mountain. A bush with bare branches like sea coral, a tree with palm fronds that spread out defiantly against the cold air—none of it looked native to Voss.

All around the miniature valley hung more floating stones, though these were not rough boulders. They were rectangular slabs the size of doors, etched with astrological designs like those on the platform he and his Master had fought on. As they passed under them, he noticed that they all hung in one of four directions, and were pointed at one another for some incomprehensible purpose. They hummed with energy, making the hairs on his neck stand on end as he neared one hanging low next to the path.

The distant crack of snow echoed in the distance, becoming louder as the sound bounced off of each floating slab of stone, intensifying to the point he feared the mountain itself would shake apart. Gradually the echo ceased, and the stones resumed their gentle humming.

They reached the temple and ascended a final flight of stairs, bringing them in front of a set of wooden doors. Vathamma pushed on the left, he on the right, straining against them until they creaked open. They slipped inside and the doors slammed closed behind them. The interior of the temple was as simple as the exterior. Featureless brick walls and floors, with a few slotted windows on either side that let in little light. A fiery brazier sat at the far end of the room between two doorways. Kneeling in the center of the room was a robed Voss, his head directed at the small potted plant on the floor in front of him. He was hairless, and his skin was covered in blue stripes of all shades, like the waves of an ocean. In contrast to the brilliant display of color the man himself was, he wore a simple white robe with a shawl hung over his head.

"I knew you would come," he said.

Torin glanced to his Master, who remained silent, then back to the man in front of them. "You sensed it?"

"No, I _heard_ you." He looked up from the plant and set his hands down in his lap. His eyes were a glassy green, with no visible pupils or iris. "You were fighting and yelling." He stated it matter-of-factly, with no hint of annoyance.

"Oh..." Torin rubbed his neck. "Sorry about that."

The Voss's eyes remained fixed on Torin, unblinking. "You are wounded."

Torin's hand went to his scar before withdrawing, and he gave a meek smile. "Is it that bad?"

"Not that," the mystic said. "When you entered, I thought that there were two of you." He pointed from Vathamma to Torin. "But this is not a being born of the Force—this is a wound in it, shaped like a man."

"What do you mean?" Torin said, stepping forward.

His Master held her hand out to stop him, and walked forward as well. "We are _both_ Sith—pilgrims to this shrine. We've come to view the holocrons in your possession."

"Ah, yes." He rose gracefully to his feet. "One of your own, Lord Andar, gifted them to me. He believes that the teachings within will help sway the Voss to the Empire's side."

"That's awfully candid of you," the red woman replied.

"I may be a mystic, but he overestimates my influence. There is a reason I am alone on this mountain."

She raised an eyebrow. "Which is?"

"My people use the Force to prophesize and adjudicate. Anything more is deemed... heretical." His eyes flickered to the plant, and Torin recalled the strange vegetation enveloping the path they had taken there. "I am a student of life, which is why I find this one's presence disconcerting."

Vathamma stepped between the Voss and her Apprentice. "Let us see the holocrons and you won't have to suffer us for very long."

The Voss motioned towards one of the doorways at the rear of the room. "They are through that hall." Torin moved to follow his Master, but the Voss stopped him. "I would like to speak to this one." The Sith motioned for him to stay, leaving him with the Voss. The alien's opalescent eyes ran up and down, seeming to peer right through him as the mystic stood up, taking the potted plant in hand as he did so. He stood silently for a moment before letting the pot fall to the floor. Torin's hand shot out instinctively and he reached outward with the Force, catching the ceramic container before it could strike the stone, then setting it down gently.

"Strange," the Voss said. "The Force does not flow through you, but you use it anyway."

The young man looked past the man towards the doorway his Master had disappeared through, then leaned in to talk quietly to the Voss. "Do you know what's wrong with me?"

With a gentle hum of contemplation the mystic rubbed his own chin. "I would not say that there is anything _wrong_ with you."

Torin frowned. "You said I was 'disconcerting'. That didn't seem like high praise."

"I may have been too hasty," the Voss replied, lowering his robed arms. "After all, scavengers have their place in the world."

"Scavenger?" Torin raised an eyebrow curiously; it was hard to tell if the deadpan mystic was mocking him or not. "You're saying I _feed_ on the Force?" The Voss nodded. Torin thought for a moment, considering how much he should reveal to the mountain-top hermit. "Then why do I feel weak here?"

The Voss raised his arms up at his sides. "Because there is no death here, only life. Tell me—when did you first feel the Force?"

"In the middle of a battle," he replied. It took him but a fraction of a second to recall that day, a memory which would never leave him.

"And there were many dead, yes?"

"Tens of thousands... hundreds of thousands, maybe." Torin's shoulders sunk and he stared blankly past the mystic, losing himself in the flickering flame at the far end of the room. "Dead, vanished."

"They did not vanish—not immediately anyway." The Voss pointed at Torin's chest. "This physical form is an anchor, tethered to a formless realm where concentrations of energy build and decay as our bodies grow and die." He held his fist up and clenched it, then relaxed his hand, waving his fingers back and forth. "When those thousands of deaths rippled through the Force, you drew their energy to you."

Torin swallowed, his mind working furiously to make sense of what the man was saying. Was this why he had been able to heal himself on Yavin IV? By drawing on the wisps of power left behind by the thousands of Sith Lords entombed there?

"You said we have a physical presence, here—" Torin held his hand to his chest. "—and one in the Force. You can see _both?"_

The mystic nodded.

"What do you see when you look at me?"

Remaining silent for a few moments, the Voss tilted his chin up slightly. "A black hole."

Heavy footsteps came from behind the mystic, and he turned to see Vathamma storming her way into the room, a red holocron held in one hand. She threw the pyramidal computer to the floor where it broke, fiberglass shattering on the solid stone.

"Where is it?" She said, eyes narrowed at the Voss.

The mystic turned back to Torin and reached into his sleeve, then pulled out a small data disc no larger than his thumb and handed it to the young man.

"You're just giving this to us?" Torin said uneasily.

The Voss shrugged. "As I said... if politics concerned me, I would not _be_ up here." He knelt down in front of the plant and ran his open palms around it. "Life will go on, one way or the other." The plant's green bulb bloomed open, displaying a bouquet of pink petals for a brief moment before the entire thing darkened and wilted.

"Well... not always." He plucked the plant from the soil in the pot and held it in both hands, then walked to the back of the room where he tossed it into the brazier. The fire flared and cracked, embers floating around him as he stood and watched the flame consume the flower. A tug at Torin's sleeve had him turn to look at his Master. She nodded towards the door and they heaved it open, slipping out onto the wind-swept mountaintop to begin their descent.

* * *

Vathamma and her Apprentice stood in her ship's lounge, just above the stairs leading out of the ship. Nomi held her hands over her mouth as she stared at Torin's bruised throat and blood-stained collar, then looked to Vathamma's swollen cheek and tired eyes. "What _happened_ up there?"

"Nothing," they said in unison as they walked to the command console at the center of the room.

"So, who won? You? Him?" Maliss said to the Sith, lips curled in amusement as she held back a laugh. "The mountain, maybe?"

The Sith ignored her and inserted the storage chip into the side of the computer. A holographic display appeared above the projector, a 3-dimensional listing of files and folders with meaningless names and structure. She began sorting through them, flicking her hand to the side as graphical representations of folders flew out of the projected image and new ones were brought to the forefront.

"What are we looking for?" Torin said, calling up a duplicate of the data from the other side of the console.

"Anything interesting," the Sith replied.

Financial statements, supply tabulations, ship rosters—potentially useful information to someone somewhere, but he wasn't a forensic accountant. With a sigh he scrolled through the folders with his finger, then stopped. He scrolled back up, hovering over the listing that had caught his eye: "Project Dark Ice."

With a tap on the holographic folder he entered it, calling to life a ship blueprint that spun slowly in front of him. A fighter much smaller than their own ship, it had two blade-shaped wings that stuck out in front, with a single cockpit in the center. It was unlike any vessel he had seen, Imperial or Republic.

"What is that?" His Master said, peering around her own display before walking around the console to get a better look at the ship. He stepped aside and she began sorting through the sub-folders, viewing schematic and operational details. "It's... a stealth fighter," she said, answering her own question. "But far more advanced than any in operation."

Maliss frowned. "So he killed two Sith Lords to take over their operations and build _ships_ for the Empire? That doesn't make any sense."

Torin shook his head and folded his arms, then looked at his Master. "There was something he said to you, back on Dominus' ship." The other three turned to look at him. "You said Imperial Intelligence would figure out what he'd done, and he didn't deny that—he said by then it would be _'too late'."_

"A power play on the Dark Council itself?" Maliss waved her hand. "I met the guy. He doesn't have the balls."

In between the two of them, Vathamma continued to look through related data until she pulled up a recorded communications stream.

"You're right, he doesn't. He's working with someone else—someone worse." Both data displays on the table were wiped clean, and in their place formed a single image that stood atop the console, nearly reaching the ceiling. A heavily armored man with arms folded across his chest, wearing a hooded cloak that hung over two blood-red eyes set deep in darkened sockets. Veins and scars ran across his pale flesh, snaking their way below the respirator that covered his nose and mouth.

"Darth Malgus," she said, though no one in the room had any difficulty recognizing the butcher of Coruscant. A war hero to the Empire, a monstrous villain to the Republic, and a figure of legend to both. He had led the attack on the Jedi Temple on Coruscant in the last days of the Great Galactic War, dealing a humiliating defeat to the Jedi Order that they were still recovering from a decade later. After the signing of a peace treaty between Empire and Republic he had led the Empire into undiscovered territory on new conquests, largely disappearing from political life—until now.

Torin's breath caught in his throat. He was no patriot of the Empire—he wasn't even _really_ anImperial citizen—but little scared him more than the idea of a Sith Empire stripped of the bickering Dark Council that had hamstrung its effectiveness in the absence of its current Emperor. What could the Empire be capable of if it had a single ruler, one with a unity of purpose and a thirst for conquest?


	18. Too Close For Comfort

"We have to tell someone!" Torin gestured at the holographic image of Darth Malgus projected above the ship's command console. "The Empire, or even the Republic—"

Vathamma, who leaned over the other side of the console, hung her head and sighed. "There's no one we can tell."

"Can't you just fire off an anonymous message?" Maliss said, seated in the lounge booth with one foot propped up on the cushioned bench. "Send them a copy of all the data?"

"It's simply too outlandish to be believed. I doubt it would make it past whatever gatekeepers forward these matters to the Watchers in Imperial Intelligence." the Sith said. "Maybe if I brought it to them publically, my name and status would carry some weight..."

"But then they'd know you're alive," Torin said, finishing her thought. "And you'd be hunted down for killing Darth Dominus." Both Sith glanced at Maliss, who winced and looked aside guiltily. "What about finding where they're building the stealth fighters? Even if we can't sabotage the operation ourselves, that'd be _something_ substantial to forward to Imperial Intelligence."

Vathamma used the console and the image of Darth Malgus disappeared, replaced by a galactic map with ten or so red dots scattered around Imperial space. "There's nothing in here about _where_ the shipyards are," she said with a frustrated sigh. "There's plenty of information on the locations for supply pickups made by his ships, but nothing about where they actually go."

"Can we follow one of Lord Andar's supply ships?" Torin said.

His Master shook her head. "These exchanges happen in dead space. One ship releases a modular package, and Lord Andar's haulers pick it up. Even if we could someone stow aboard the hauler, we would be jumping into Gods only know what on the other end." No one said a word, and they stared in silence at the hologram.

"Then, there's this." Vathamma pulled up a file listing beside the map. "An encrypted database."

Torin raised an eyebrow curiously. "The rest of it wasn't encrypted, but this was?"

"It's not _their_ encryption," the Sith said. "It's Republic in origin, and over three centuries old. Judging by the server logs we received with the data dump, Lord Andar's ship was dedicating a _massive_ amount of computing power to cracking the file."

"Then it must be something useful," Torin said.

"Perhaps it is." The Sith woman closed the file listing. "But if they couldn't access it, we certainly won't be able to."

He leaned over the projector, staring at the galactic map flickering in front of him. They'd gone to such great lengths to recover the information Maliss had collected, but now they couldn't do anything with it. Through the hologram he saw his Master leave the console and walk towards one of the adjoining halls.

"Where are you going?" Torin called after her.

"I'm tired," she replied. "I need to rest... and think."

As he turned back to the console he saw that the map was gone, and in its place was the listing of files and folders they had sorted through earlier. Nomi had taken the Sith's place at the computer, and was busy looking through the vast collection of data.

"What are you doing?" Torin said, circling around the console.

Her fingers were a blur, and her eyes snapped up from keyboard to holographic display every few seconds. "I am searching for any clues to what happened to my sister," she said. "She may have left me a message, hidden somewhere."

The corners of his mouth turned down as he watched the Togruta work intently. He nearly told her it was hopeless, that a slave wouldn't have any opportunities to leave behind messages—if she were even still alive.

But, he didn't say that.

If he were in her situation, he wouldn't want someone telling him to give up. He put his hands on her shoulders and peaked past her to the display. "Do you want any help?"

"No," she said, continuing to tap away on the keyboard.

He withdrew his hands and stepped back.

"No, thank you," she added, glancing back guiltily before turning back to the console. He knew that she didn't mean to be cold, that deep down she likely suspected what he himself had left unsaid: that her sister was dead, or sold off like the slaves they'd encountered back on Quesh. For Nomi, this was just a way to keep busy and stay sane.

Looking to the lounge booth, he saw that Maliss had already disappeared, either to her bedroom or the bridge. Despite the small size of the ship, he felt increasingly isolated. Nomi was pulling away, both physically and emotionally, the gap between them widening as her focus was drawn more and more to grabbing onto whatever scraps of hope she had in finding her sister. As horrible a thought as it was, Torin found himself wishing that she would give up—for both of their sakes.

Then, there was his Master. A woman whose peculiar affections vacillated between tender and monstrous without warning. There were still many things to learn from her, but no comfort to be had.

It spoke to his desperation for some semblance of normal companionship that he found himself seated in the bridge's co-pilot chair so often, making small-talk with the Mandalorian who had once stabbed him through the chest. The woman may have been a psychopathic mercenary who spoke about killing with the same gravity as what she had for breakfast, but listening to her outlandish stories had the reassuring effect of reminding him that no matter how strange his life had gotten, it could always get stranger.

Giving one last glance back at the busy Togruta, he walked to the bridge only to find two empty chairs facing the slowly-turning stars outside the viewport windows. With a muted sigh he turned around, passing through the lounge on the way to the meditation room. His swordplay had improved steadily—his Master had even _complimented_ him on it—but meditation was an exercise that only seemed to get harder as time dragged on and new scars were heaped onto him.

No sooner had he sat down and closed his eyes than his wounds begin to throb, both inside and out. The scar running along the side of his face, burning with a fraction of the heat it had been forged with. The lover who wouldn't talk to him. The Master whose attention he simultaneously yearned for and feared.

For a time he sat in meditative repose, letting bothersome thoughts float by untouched with his hands folded in his lap and his back turned to the room's entryway. A knock came at the door, and he slowly opened his eyes and turned his head to look at it.

"Come in," he said, fully expecting Nomi to enter. She was the only one on the ship to do him the courtesy of knocking. His eyes widened in surprise when he saw his Master enter, and he stood to his feet as the door shut behind her.

Her brow was furrowed thoughtfully, and she chewed her lip as if mulling over some mildly irritating thought that had stuck in her like a splinter. "I'm not going to apologize for what I did," she said.

He scoffed in disbelief. "And you want... what, forgiveness?"

"No. I just came here to tell you that I won't apologize."

Standing firm, he tilted his head back slightly and looked down at her. "And I'm not going to forgive you, either."

They stared each other down in silence for a few moments, like duelists searching their opponent for an opening.

"I can live with that," she said.

"So can I," he replied. Each lowered their guard, as if they'd signed a temporary truce in some unspoken war.

"Good." Her tone was firm, but he sensed a hint of genuine relief. "I will not apologize, because I do not regret it." She walked towards him and reached out, hooking her fingers into his collar and pulling him downward so that they were face to face. Her amber eyes danced about, looking from one eye to the other while his mouth hung slightly open in surprise.

"Nor do I regret taking you prisoner." She leaned forward, pressing her lips to his while holding him firmly by the collar. Her free hand moved to grasp the side of his stomach and her eyelids drooped, fluttering open and closed even as his own went wide with shock. Torin pried her hand off of his collar and grabbed her around the wrists with both hands, then pushed her back until her robed back hit the metal wall. A lock of black hair fell from her hair bun and hung next to one eye as she looked up at him.

"Every time I think we're on the same side, you do something like this." He clenched her wrists tightly, pressing them against the wall above her head.

"We _are_ on the same side." She met his fierce gaze with one of calm acceptance.

Even with the door closed and his voice lowered he worried someone might hear them. "So why do you keep toying with me?" he hissed through clenched teeth.

"Do you think I am toying with you?" Her words caught him off-guard, and he felt his grip loosen before he grabbed her tightly and held her to the wall with renewed strength. She made no attempt to escape his hold, and continued to stare into his eyes as if challenging him to look away. Her chest was rising and falling with each breath, nearly touching his own as he stood over her. The front of her neck was exposed, and her delicate red throat moved as she swallowed. Every time he had been foolish enough to believe that he had the upper hand on her, she had turned the tables to teach him some lesson. Was this some game of hers? Another test?

He leaned forward, pressing his chest to her own and moving his face next to hers, forcing her to angle her head upward to keep her unflinching gaze locked onto his. Their heartbeats melded, a seamless flurry of energy and passion inflamed further by the intimate knowledge of what the other was feeling. The woman made no attempt to move away, and Torin found himself moving his lips towards hers, partly from some challenge that he felt compelled to answer, partly from a base desire that he couldn't ignore.

* * *

"I did it!" Nomi exclaimed. She stood up from the lounge's control console, looking away from the holographic map in front of her to peer down the adjoining hallways. "I figured it out!"

She waited, expecting the rest of the crew members to come running.

"That's great," Maliss shouted from the bridge. Silence returned to the ship, and the Togruta frowned. She stomped down the hall to Torin's makeshift bedroom and banged on the metal door with her fist. When no answer came, she hit the controls next to the door and slid it open. Inside she saw Torin and Vathamma standing next to each other, the latter straightening her hair and looking away from the door while Torin stared at the Togruta like an animal caught in a cruiser's headlights. Too excited to comment on the odd situation—or even take notice of it—Nomi stomped inside the room and grabbed Torin by the wrist.

"Come here," she said, then dragged him to the console in the center of the ship. Projected above was a map of the galaxy, with glowing red circles that intersected each other in a large cluster covering nearly a quarter of the map.

"What is wrong with you?" Vathamma said, following the two to the lounge. "Did you finally succumb to cabin fever?"

Maliss left her bedroom and entered the central room, not wanting to be the odd woman out in a meeting none quite knew the purpose of yet.

Nomi pointed at the map. "Do you see these circles? They are jump drive ranges."

Vathamma sighed. "For?" she asked, deciding to indulge her.

"Lord Andar's ships picking up cargo at the midpoints his suppliers use. We do not know where they are going, but we know how what model the vessels are and how much fuel they pick up with each trip—so we know where they _can_ go."

The other three inhaled sharply, grasping the implications of what she said. Nomi pressed a button on the console, and the circles disappeared, replaced by a single irregular shape representing the intersection of the supply ships' jump ranges. It sat in the upper right corner of the galaxy, the edge closest to civilized space just barely encompassing Korriban, while the other end reached into an empty spiral arm of stars where few tread.

"This is where the construction yard will be," she concluded, pointing at the glowing red patch of space.

Maliss frowned and waved a hand, then leaned up against her bedroom door frame and rested her hands atop her head. "That's still thousands of systems."

"Ok," Nomi said. "So we will take out the ones along well-traveled hyperspace routes."

Torin tapped his chin. "And charted systems with no celestial bodies to anchor a shipyard around. I'm sure there's a lot of ways to narrow it down."

Vathamma folded her arms and paced about the room. "It is... creative." She gave a grudging glance of acknowledgement to the Togruta and thumbed one of the tentacles hanging from her chin. "But we are still looking at a hundred or so systems—and we would be jumping into them blind. How did you come up with such an idea, anyway?"

"When I was your slave..." Nomi looked to the floor, but then summoned her inner defiance and stared down the woman. "Whenever I had a little bit of free time, I would entertain myself by charting hyperspace jumps to see how far I could get away from you—and how fast."

The Sith raised a ridged eyebrow. "I didn't give you unsupervised access to any computers."

"I know," the Togruta responded. "I did it by hand, with paper maps. Except for those cold, dark nights where you turned off my room's power as punishment." Her voice cracked and Torin put a comforting hand on Nomi's shoulder, then shook his head disapprovingly at his Master.

" _One_ time I did that!" Vathamma said to Torin. "Once," she whispered to Maliss, holding up a single finger.

Torin let his hand fall from Nomi's shoulder and walked towards the map, examining it thoughtfully for a few moments. He hit a button and reversed the change she had made, going back to the display of a dozen intersecting jump ranges.

"There's no ships coming from Core Space." He pointed to the left of the search area, towards the center of the galaxy, home of the Republic. "Can you add in another ship from there?"

"Where?" The Togruta took his place at the console.

"Let's make it close to the search area," he said. "As a worst case scenario."

With the press of a button a new circle appeared between Imperial and Republic space, drastically reducing the size of the area they would have to search for Andar's shipyards.

"I fail to see the practicality of this exercise," his Master said. "They're not transporting anything from the Core Worlds."

"But suppose they were?" He gave her a sly grin. "Can you bring up the details on which ships are transporting what?"

The Togruta played at the computer for a moment, and a listing appeared near each circle, showing what the ships in question were carrying. Torin leaned in towards the display, squinting at the holographic text. He smiled and gave a satisfied _hmph,_ then leaned back upright and looked to his Master.

"We want to find the shipyards and get that file decrypted, right?" He pointed at a particular ship's cargo listing. "I think I know how to kill two birds with one stone."

"How?" She asked uneasily, walking towards the console.

"It involves some _light_ terrorism." He could hear Maliss' excited intake of breath as he finished his sentence, and the Mandalorian walked towards the console from the edge of the room.

"Is one of you going to explain?" The mercenary said.

Torin pointed to the map. "We can narrow the search area down to a fraction of the size if we force Andar to establish a supply pickup near Republic space."

"Alright, and how do we do that?" Maliss said.

Torin motioned for his Master to lay out the rest of the plan, and the Sith woman leaned over the console. "The stealth ships use an absurd quantity of thermoplast flux in their coatings; there are only two suppliers who can meet his demands." She pointed at a moon orbiting Nal Hutta, not far from where their ship currently sat in space. "His current supplier on Nar Shaddaa, the Hutt Cartel." Her finger moved to the left, stopping at Balmorra in the center of the galaxy before dropping to the far bottom of the map and pointing at a second planet. "And a cartel on Falleen, which has only recently established supply lines to Empire space through Balmorra."

"That's an awful lot of inside knowledge for someone who's been on the outside for so long," the Mandalorian said.

"I only know this because I was the one who initiated trade with one of the Falleen cartels." She waved a hand at her Apprentice. "Torin was... involved."

"Ok, I get it." The Mandalorian sat down on the edge of the lounge booth. "Blow up the Hutts' refining plant, and Andar has to go crawling to the Falleen for some emergency thermoplast. But why would they tell us where the pickup is?"

Torin smirked and pressed a thumb to his chest. "Leave that to me. I'm sure the Cartel Representative and I can reach an understanding." He folded his arms across his chest and leaned back on one foot with a self-satisfied expression, but grew uneasy when he saw the Togruta and Sith glowering at him. "Through _blackmail,"_ he added hurriedly. "We're going to _blackmail_ her."

Both women turned away, their watchful eyes lingering just a bit too long for his comfort as Nomi walked towards her room and the Sith went for the bridge.

"Nar Shaddaa it is, then," his Master said.


	19. A White Lie

Nar Shaddaa didn't have cities, or towns, or even villages. The moon _was_ the city, a single megapolis spanning a rock that had long ago been stripped of its natural resources and replaced by towering metal structures that teemed with life.

As Torin left Mezenti spaceport, he peered over the edge of the causeway down into the depths of the city. It seemed to go on forever, overlapping roads and smog obscuring his sight long before he caught a glimpse of anything resembling solid ground. The Hutts that owned the planet could have stripped it of its last bit of rock and no one would notice the difference, save a slight decrease in gravity.

"Did that Falleen respond to your message?" Vathamma asked, walking beside him on the causeway as all four made their way to the landing pad in front of the airport. Crowds of tourists and travelers entered and exited airborne cruisers controlled by robotic drivers that would, for a fee, take you anywhere on the small moon. The Sith wore her hood up over her head, hiding her face from wandering eyes as well as the security cameras littering every street corner. Even on the Smuggler's Moon, where one could find anything and everything, a pureblood Sith was a rare sight that could draw unwanted attention.

"No," Torin said. "But she'll come. I'm sure of it." He had let Sosyan, the cartel representative, know that they were on Nar Shaddaa and were desperately seeking an audience with her. All that was left to do was make sure that the Falleen had a sudden business opportunity fall into her lap.

"Why?" The Sith asked. "Because of your magnetic personality?"

He scratched his face and glanced back at Maliss and Nomi. The Togruta was swiveling her head every which way, marveling at the cityscape and its neon signs. "I... may have dropped your name."

"You _what?"_ She grabbed his sleeve, slowing their walk.

"A wanted Sith Lord is a great draw!" He pulled his arm free of her grip. "Besides, she was going to find out you were alive once we're on her ship."

She sighed and hung her shoulders. "This is what happens when I relinquish the reins for even a moment."

The pair separated, Vathamma and Nomi entering a taxi bound for the Corellian sector while Torin and Maliss boarded one en route to the Industrial sector. Torin slid into the back of the covered cruiser, followed by Maliss. The bulky woman squeezed in next to him took up a good quarter of his own seat. Even in vehicles, space on Nar Shaddaa was at a premium. He watched out the window to this left as the taxi ascended and then joined with the flow of traffic snaking its way through the skyscrapers surrounding the spaceport.

"How much do you know about the Exchange?" Maliss said.

"Criminal syndicate, intergalactic reach—just the broad strokes," he replied.

"Yeah, well they're not so intergalactic anymore. They never really recovered from Darth Malak bombing Taris to dust."

"Taris?" He pulled his head back and looked at her. "That was over three centuries ago. What kind of gang can't bounce back in that time?"

"You're using 'gang' a bit liberally, kid. These aren't—well, they _weren't_ —just thugs and thieves. We're talking industrial and financial empires that rival normal planetary governments."

He considered her words for a moment and turned to watch the streets and buildings passing by on all sides of them. They were well away from the spaceport, carried along the stream of flying taxis and cruisers like a fish in a riptide.

"If that's the case, can I really convince them to work with us?" He asked her.

"Like I said, they never quite recovered. 'The Exchange' is more a brand name than anything these days. There's no real central leader. At least, not that anyone knows of."

"That anyone knows of?" He said nervously.

She put her hand on his shoulder and jostled him good-naturedly. "Relax, you'll do fine. If the Exchange actually had a competent boss, they wouldn't be getting torn to shit by the Hutts. That's where you come in."

He let out a low grumble. "I'm not sure I can pull off a convincing Jedi impression."

"Just do your normal Sith thing," she said, wheeling her hand in front of her. "But don't choke anyone." She turned to see him screwing up his face thoughtfully. "Lucky for you, you've got that whole 'Core Worlds bumpkin' look that just screams Jedi."

Away from the spaceport, the city had grown denser and lost what little luster it had as their taxi descended into the underbelly of the Industrial sector. An ostensibly upscale area, it had its ups and downs. Quite literally, in fact; the lower one went in the tangled web of buildings and skypasses, the more likely they were to wind up on the wrong end of some ganger's shiv. Each sector was a world unto itself, a city within a city. One could live their entire life without ever leaving it. It wouldn't surprise him if some of the shorter-lived species led just such lives.

The thought amused him, until he realized how close he had come to doing exactly that. A farmer on some backwater planet, born in his family's homestead, working the land for eighty years if he were lucky, then being buried a few hundred feet from where he'd come into this world. Ever since he'd reached Balmorra with his Master, it was every few hours that he found himself wondering whether it was fortuitous or disastrous that a Republic military official had so unceremoniously plucked him from his home all those months ago.

There, in that cab, he stopped wondering.

* * *

Under ordinary circumstances, acquiring fuel and fresh supplies for a ship would have been done from the comfort of Mezenti spaceport. If one were determined to save five or ten percent, they might venture to an outlying sector and seek a better deal. Unfortunately, those methods required docking papers and identification that stood up to repeated scrutiny. They had fooled the docking official with the kind of persuasive power only two Sith could muster, but to do more than that presented a whole host of problems. Finding a merchant willing to look the other way was one thing. Finding one willing to risk forging official documents was a bit more difficult, and required venturing deep into Nar Shaddaa's seedy underbelly.

It was in pursuit of that goal that the Sith and her Togruta companion walked through the lowest level of the Corellian sector, passing ramshackle market stalls as they wound their way through crowds of laborers, smugglers, beggars, and other far less reputable individuals than even those groups. The Togruta glanced to the hooded Sith occasionally, raising the woman's ire as she became increasingly bothered by the stares of her former slave.

"Where did you get those?" Nomi said to Vathamma.

The Sith eyed her curiously.

"That jewelry," she said, pointing to her own chin. "Did the scavengers on Ondrai not take them as payment?"

Staring at the woman, she pondered in silence before gasping in mock realization. "Oh, these?" She rubbed the two golden rings hanging below her chin. "My Apprentice gave them to me. As a gift, you see."

Nomi stared her down incredulously. "He _gave_ them to you?"

The other woman smiled. "I thought it was odd, too. Shouldn't he be lavishing jewelry on his lover?"

The Togruta narrowed her eyes at her, then faced back ahead as they walked.

"Odd, but not surprising," the Sith sighed. "After all, a slave girl with no depth or features beyond the meat on her chest can only hold a man's attention for so long. It's only natural that his eyes drift elsewhere."

The alien frowned and stared at the ground as they walked through the busy marketplace.

"Oh, but don't worry," the Sith said, putting a less-than-comforting hand on her shoulder. "I would not take from you the last person in this galaxy who loves you."

"Although there's also that brute of a woman housed in such close quarters to him..." The Sith used her other hand to tap her chin thoughtfully. "She did seem to have more of an eye for _you_ than my apprentice. Perhaps if you seduce her first, you can avoid having him stolen from you."

Nomi shook the Sith's hand from her shoulder and stopped, her focus directed at the racks of clothes lining the interior of a shop constructed under an aluminum overhang. Compared to her baggy linen shirt and beige pants, the garments within were downright fashionable. She plucked at her shirt and looked down at it for a moment, then turned to Vathamma.

"Give me credits." She held her hand out to the Sith.

"What for?"

The Togruta frowned. "For all the years you never paid me."

The Sith grumbled and dropped a card into Nomi's outstretched palm. The Togruta entered the shop and tore off her shirt, to the shock of the old woman standing behind the counter. Vathamma followed and watched curiously as she yanked a black leather jacket off the rack and pulled it over her arms, zipping it up over her ample breasts. She turned to the Sith, holding her arms aloft.

"How do I look?" Nomi said.

The other woman ran her eyes up the Togruta's slim legs, past her taut midriff exposed by the short coat, finally stopping on the two red breasts nearly popping out of the jacket she had left partially unzipped. "Hideous," she said with a frown.

The Togruta smirked. "You are jealous."

With a roll of her eyes the Sith left the shop and continued through the marketplace, leaving the other woman to play dress-up. She passed through the marketplace, then veered into an alleyway to cross into another section of the district. The walls were narrow, and clothes hung from wires running across the alley. Just as she was nearing the busy plaza and crowds visible through the alley's exit, two men emerged from an alleyway to her right. Scarred and disheveled, they wore garments that were more rags than clothes.

"Hey there, lady. Not so fast—"

Vathamma waved a hand in front of them. "Don't bother me."

The two men looked at each other. "Let's not bother her," one said, drawing a nod of agreement from the other. They continued past the Sith, walking the way she had come. As she stepped out into the busy throngs of people passing through the marketplace, she heard a woman shout and turned back towards the alleyway. The two men stood in the alleyway, bearing down on some poor soul stupid enough to take shortcuts in Nar Shaddaa. Vathamma nearly continued on her way without giving the scene a second thought, but paused when she saw the distinctive white-and-blue horns of her companion peaking out above the heads of the two men. Using the Force to bolster her hearing, she focused intently on the two thugs and their victim.

"I do not _have_ any money." Nomi said.

None of the people walking past the Sith noticed the ongoing robbery, and Vathamma continued walking through the plaza. Despite that, she found herself unable to tear her attention away from the alleyway.

"No money, huh?" One of the men said.

"Maybe we can work out something else," the other added. A sharp _slap_ echoed in the Sith's ears as Nomi slapped away one of the men's hands. They grabbed her, and the shouts became incomprehensible to the Sith. She stopped and shut her eyes, listening for a few moments more before whirling back around, pushing through the crowd and entering the alleyway. She reached out with her hands and lifted both men into the air, pulling them free of the Togruta left cowering before them. Wrenching her fingers every which way, the mens' bodies twisted and contorted like marionettes, their bones cracking and blood dripping from the tears in their flesh as they screamed. Only a few glances came from the marketplace behind the Sith, and those only from the people who had not lived on the moon long enough to be inured to its endless violence.

Finally the Sith dropped the mens' corpses to the ground, and waited until she saw Nomi stand to her feet while the frightened Togruta glanced back and forth from her savior to the bodies in shock. Vathamma spun around without a word and began to leave the alleyway. As she was about to emerge back out into the open market, a shuttered window above her slammed open and she was struck from overhead by a splash of cold water. The woman leaning out of the window above her with an empty bucket in hand winced guiltily before pulling back inside, shutting the window behind her.

The Sith sighed and cast her eyes down at the ground, waiting for Nomi to burst out into laughter. Instead, she felt cloth wrap around her head as Nomi used the baggy shirt she had stripped off earlier to dry the Sith's robed head.

"Thank you," she said, rubbing the drenched woman's head in silence for a few moments more.

"Give me that," Vathamma hissed. She yanked the shirt from Nomi's hands and began walking again, drying herself as she went.

* * *

Yeruk'Tar, like the Exchange group that owned the club, had seen better days. Torin and Maliss passed an idle door guard on their way in, an overweight man in a vest a size too small, who waved them in without checking for weapons. The club itself was a spacious room several stories high. Balconied floors wrapped around a central dance floor with a bar at the end of the room. On each floor were private seating areas built into the walls, each outfitted with a table that projected a holographic Twi'lek dancer. Even if one were to include the holographic women, the gender ratio of the club was far from ideal. Rough looking men and shifty aliens leaned over tables on each level, shouting at each other over the thumping electronic music. The lights on the outer floors were dimmed, but the central space was fully lit.

As the pair reached the center of the room, the music stopped and the lights switched on from ground to ceiling. Men rushed to the balconies on every level, pointing their guns at the startled Apprentice and Mandalorian caught in the middle of an impromptu firing squad.

Torin cleared his throat. "I'm looking for whoevers in charge."

"That would be me," came a deep voice.

He turned to his left, where a man emerged from a doorway on the ground floor. Metal clanked against metal as he walked, and as he approached them Torin got a better look at the man who had spoken. Bald with dark skin, he wore a jury-rigged set of power armor as cobbled-together as the city itself. Over his eyes were a pair of targeting lenses; the teal oculi widened and narrowed as he walked towards them, scanning the two intruders. Circuitry wound its way up his neck, integrating his body with the metal suit that covered it.

Maliss leaned her face close to Torin's ear. "See that setup on his eyes?" she whispered. "He _will_ know if you're lying."

"What are you doing in my club?" The man said, a hint of robotic modulation audible under his baritone voice.

Torin scanned the multiple floors of Exchange gangsters pointing guns at him. "I'd hoped to speak with you. I wasn't expecting... this." He waved a hand at the men above.

"One can't be too careful these days," the man said. "You've got ten seconds to tell me who you are."

Torin raised both hands to his side, palms pointed towards the ceiling. "I'll show you in five." He whipped his hands together above his head, and every gun in the room was torn from its owner's hands, smashing into a ball twenty feet above him that grew in size until every last blaster hung suspended in midair. He brought one hand back down to his side, keeping the other aloft to hold up the mass of firearms.

The man frowned. "You're Sith."

"What makes you say that?" Torin said.

He tapped a metal plate on the side of his head, indicating at the neural interface contained within. "Nothing happens in this sector without me knowing. An Imperial ship lands and its owner books a cruiser to my sector? I'll know about it."

"Then you'll also know that those landing papers were forged," Maliss said, glancing to Torin.

The man looked at Torin thoughtfully, and he quickly caught where the Mandalorian was going.

"I _fought_ the Sith," Torin declared, looking around the room as he used his free hand to gesture to his scarred face. "I have seen thousands die in battle with them."

"Then we've got something in common," the man said. "My name is Ukabi. I lead the Nar Shaddaa branch of the Exchange—but then, you already knew that." He looked Torin over, sizing him up a second time. "You've fought the Empire?"

"On Uracco," Torin said. "And Balmorra, and Quesh."

"And you've fought Sith?"

"I've _killed_ a Sith Lord," he replied confidently, then motioned to the woman beside him. "So has she."

The man pointed at Torin's lightsaber scar. "How about that?"

Torin touched it with his fingertips. "Not all my duels went so well."

Ukabi let out an amused _hmmph._ "Then we have something in common." It occurred to Torin that the machinery the man had wrapped himself in did more than simply strengthen him. "How'd you survive?"

"I ran," he stated frankly.

"And you're not ashamed of that?"

"Not for a moment," Torin replied quickly. "I _had_ to run—to save someone I love."

Ukabi crossed his arms and leaned back on a powerful metal leg, his joints creaking as he moved. "Tell me. If you're not Sith, then why have you come to this moon? The Empire has wound its tendrils into every crevice of Nar Shaddaa."

"That's _why_ I have come," Torin said. "To break the Empire's stranglehold."

Ukabi returned a blank stare, but Torin was sure he would have raised an eyebrow if he had the capacity for animated facial expressions. "And how do you plan to do that?"

"Economically. I will break the backbone of the Hutts' wealth on Nar Shaddaa, and end this moon's usefulness as a cog in the Imperial war machine."

Ukabi clasped his hands behind his back. "You're talking about the thermoplast refinement plant in the industrial sector."

Torin nodded.

"That's insanity. You might as well assault the Imperial shipyards themselves."

"It would be, if I were alone."

The man listened intently, and Torin continued as he saw that he had captured his attention. "Imagine every gang under the Hutts' fat tails, rising up at once to overthrow them. The Niktos, the Duros, even the Justicars."

Ukabi scoffed. "I would have heard of such a plan."

"You would have, if it were told to anyone before today. How long do you think something like that would stay secret before some loose-lipped shivver ran his mouth?"

"Point taken... but one Jedi and a few gangs don't take on the Empire and _win_."

Torin smirked. "I guarantee you there is more than one Jedion Nar Shaddaa. Yours is the only group I myself have spoken to."

He stared down his nose at Torin, robotic eyes fixed on his. "You really think you can do it."

"Only with the help of you and your men," Torin said, looking to the gangsters still watching the discussion with great interest. "Without the Exchange, this plan will fail—and the Hutts will keep their hold on Nar Shaddaa."

Ukabi stood silently, eyes staring blankly at Torin before they refocused and he extended his hand. "Then it looks like we're in business."

Torin smiled and gave the man's gloved hand a firm shake. "Good to have you aboard."

They released their hands, and with a wave Ukabi dismissed the men gathered along the balconies. He turned and walked towards the hallway he had entered from, motioning for Torin and Maliss to follow. "They're going to need those." He looked back at the mass of blasters still held in the air by Torin. The young man loosened his fist as he followed, letting the ball fall to the ground in a hail of blasters, making a few of the more skittish Exchange members nearby jump in surprise.

They entered a small room, half office and half command space. A grizzled man in a loose jacket leaned up against a side wall, one hand holding his opposite wrist as he watched the group enter. He looked to be in his sixties, at least—the oldest Torin had seen among the Exchange members. A war table stood at the center of the room, several inches above which hovered a holographic display of the Industrial district. Ukabi walked towards it and touched the shimmering hologram, then moved his hands upwards, separating the diagram into the six main levels of their sector. A red dot on the one second from the bottom indicated their current location in the Yeruk'Tar club. Ukabi tapped a location two floors above that with a metal finger, and a second red dot appeared.

"This is our target. If we're really going to do this, I want to hear your plan."

"That's _my_ target," Torin said. "Your men won't be assaulting the thermoplast plant."

Ukabi stood up straight. "You mean to attack it _yourself?"_

He gestured to Maliss. "My... partner and I, yes. We need you to draw the Hutts' attention while we cripple the facility."

"That, I can do," the man said. Torin detected a bit of self-satisfaction in the man's monotone voice. Ukabi reached below the table and pulled on a spool of wire, then reached around to the back of his head and plugged the computer cable in his hand into the back of his head. He closed his eyes, and countless red dots appeared on every floor of the holographic display. "These are all the infrastructure locations vital to the Hutts' operations." Ukabi opened his eyes and stared at the table. "Communication hubs, landing pads, power grids... If my men hit these, this entire sector will be paralyzed."

"So why haven't you?" Maliss said.

Ukabi looked up from the display. "There's been no point. We lock down the Industrial sector for a day or two, then they sweep in when they realize we've grown too strong to ignore." He unplugged the cable from his head and let it snap back to the underside of the table. "All we could do until now is bide our time, and grow stronger. Now, we can put that strength to use."

Torin nodded along thoughtfully, examining the map of the sector, then looked Ukabi in the eye. "Can you hit all of them?"

The trio hammered out the details of the operation while the old man at the other end of the room watched silently; after a while, all but Ukabi simply forgot he was there. Having established means for communicating and a timetable for the plan, Torin and Maliss left the club, leaving Ukabi to stare at the map hungrily. The old man walked over to him, circling the table as he examined the hologram with no less interest, but far more uncertainty.

"You're putting a lot of trust in two people you just met," the old man said.

"It's not trust." Ukabi tapped the robotic lenses dug into the flesh around his eyes. "Heartbeat, breathing patterns, even brain waves—I read them like an open book. No liar can hide from me."

The old man frowned. "But a Jedi just drops in here? I'm tellin' you, it stinks. We should at least double-check his story."

"Fortune favors the bold," Ukabi said, pushing up off of the table and turning to the old man. "We seize this opportunity, or the Hutts continue to snatch territory from beneath our feet." He began to leave the room before turning back to the old man. "And I _did_ double check his story."

The old man's eyes went wide. "You got records for the academy on Tython?"

"My reach is far, but not _that_ far." He touched the neural interface on the side of his head. "After the Sith sacked the Jedi temple on Coruscant, scavengers got ahold of the information stored there—and I purchased it from them."

"So he _is_ a Jedi." The old man grinned and shook his head in disbelief. "That was twelve years ago. Can't believe that data's useful _now."_

Ukabi turned and continued walking out of the room. "The Force works in mysterious ways."


	20. Lost And Found

Marcus Tym liked his job. He didn't particularly like his _employers,_ but it'd been years since he'd actually had to speak to a Hutt face-to-face. Ten years as head of security at their thermoplast plant on Nar Shaddaa, and the worst situation he'd ever dealt with was a gang war that spilled over into one of the cooling stations on his level. A few quick words on the radio to a nearby garrison and three dead Nikto later, the gangs scattered. It wasn't something he'd like to see become a regular occurrence, but he had felt a bit of pride that day at having restored order to the sector he was charged with securing.

Not that he was concerned much with the sector as a whole—gangs had carved it up like a slab of Bantha—since the Hutts only cared about the continued operation of the refinery sitting smack dab in the middle of the multiple tiers of superstructures comprising the Corellian sector. Nor did any gangs try and mess with the Hutts' operations, outside of the incidental intrusion he'd thwarted a few months ago. Those slugs owned the Smugglers' Moon, and to draw their attention was to bring down the wrath of the entire cartel.

So on things went as usual, the Hutts sitting back and getting filthy rich from the liquid thermoplast flux pumped out of the facility, the gangs picking up credits here and there selling drugs and pimping women, and Marcus in between the two worlds making sure they never collided. They might have some spacer kid crawl into a pipe and get killed by one of the periodic heat emissions, forcing Marcus to send out some unlucky bastard to clean up the remains, but he didn't see the night getting any worse than that.

The lights in the small surveillance room shut out, and Marcus stopped pacing about the cramped space where he and his men watched over the facility. Within seconds emergency lighting kicked in, bathing the room in an eerie red glow.

"Sir!" Came a shout to his right. He spun on his heels and walked over to where one of his men sat in front of a wall of monitors, each showing a different security feed from somewhere in the massive complex of pipes, storage tanks, and vats of superheated chemicals. The seated man pointed at one of the screens, and Marcus smoothed out his ruffled uniform as he leaned over and squinted at the small screen.

"What in the name of..." He trailed off, both men watching the feed in bewilderment. On the screen, a brown-haired man and a tall woman strode through the series of corridors leading to the security headquarters in which Marcus and his men stood guard. The pair stopped in front of a security door, and the man reached out with both hands and wrenched it open, throwing the heavy steel slabs to both sides of the hall. The video had no sound to it, but Marcus could hear and feel the impact carry into the room he stood in.

"Countermeasures, now!" He pointed at his subordinate's terminal, and the man hurriedly went to work shutting blast doors and deploying security droids. The two intruders moved from one screen to the next, the man prying open vault-like blast doors with hardly any more difficulty than the first, while the woman beside him used her pistol to take down the bipedal droids deploying from narrow alcoves along the edges of the hallway. The pair were drawing closer to the security room, though he hardly needed to watch the screens for that—each subsequent shake of the building grew louder, making it abundantly clear that they were about to reach them.

Marcus pulled his blaster from its holster and walked to the center of the room, then pointed it at the doorway. Of the four men in the room, he was the only one armed. Once those two— _whoever_ they were—made it through, he was the only thing standing in their way.

The doors wrenched open, flying back into the hallway and Marcus fired blindly into the dimly-lit corridor, wild shots striking the walls further down the passage. As his hand and gun moved about, the woman stepped out from the edge of the hall and calmly took aim at his chest, discharging a single shot into his chest. He fell backwards, his blaster clattering to the floor and the life leaving his eyes.

Maliss entered the room, sweeping the corners as she checked for any remaining threats. Satisfied that there was no one left who posed an immediate danger, she turned her blaster on the three men seated at the security terminals about the room and shot each in the torso. They slumped forward onto their desks, blaster wounds smoking.

"Why did you do that?" Torin exclaimed as the Mandalorian stepped over the security chief's body. "I could have told them to leave quietly!"

Maliss sat down at the main security terminal on the far side of the room, a wrap-around desk with several monitors built into it. Unlike the others it had no security feeds, instead showing every conceivable safety indicator in the carefully monitored refinery complex. Pneumatic pressure levels, capacitor charges, heat build-up—everything that could go wrong in an operation as complex as the one the Hutts had built.

"I don't like that persuasion thing you do. It's too unreliable." She nodded at one of the seated bodies. "Dead is reliable." Peaking around one of the monitors, she pointed at the security chief's corpse. "Grab his ID card."

Torin frowned and knelt down beside the body, whispering a silent apology as he unhooked a metal card the size of his hand from the man's belt loop. He slapped it down on the desk beside Maliss and she swiped it into the card reader beside the terminal, giving her full access to the emergency measures available to the security outpost in the event of a disaster.

"What are you doing?" He asked, circling around to her side of the desk.

"The Exchange cut off the data connections to the central governor process." Her eyes flickered upwards to the red emergency lights glowing on the ceiling. "Without those stoppin' us, _this_ will let us run whatever maintenance procedures we want on the plant."

Torin folded his arms and leaned back on one foot, staring at the screens thoughtfully. It was an incomprehensible array of blueprints and numeric information that would take half a decade of mechanical engineering courses to fully understand. "Alright... so how do we use that to damage?"

" _Permanent_ damage," the Mandalorian echoed, her fingers working the keyboard until she brought up a list of maintenance procedures they could trigger. Most sounded innocuous enough, and none looked like they would have the refinery out of comission for more than a week.

"Can you run more than one at once?" He asked, leaning on the desk and examining the screens.

She smiled. "I like your thinkin'." Turning back to the computer, she brought up separate processes on two monitors, each showing a diagram of the complex with different sections highlighted. "So say we close the manifolds discharging heat into the level below us..." Her finger moved from one screen to the other. "And at the same time, shut the air intake valves across the complex."

He shoved off of the desk and patted her on the shoulder. "I'm sure that will do _something_ nasty."

The Mandalorian went to work on the terminal, closing vents around the refinery as heat indicators on the screens surrounding her flashed red, indicating dangerous temperatures that threatened the integrity of the structures they were tampering with. Torin strode around the room, idly glancing at the surveillance screens. His eyes passed something that grabbed his attention and he backtracked, landing on a small screen on which he could see faint movement. As he walked over to it the image grew clearer. Nearly twenty people, scattered around a sealed loading bay. They sat on metal crates and milled about the room, rubbing their heads nervously and gesturing frantically as they spoke to one another.

Torin's eyes went wide. "There are still people here!" He looked over to Maliss and pointed to the screen. "In the loading bay! They were all supposed to evacuate when the Exchange cut the power grid!"

She shrugged and went back to work. "Guess they didn't have enough cruisers."

Looking back to the screen, he chewed his lip. "Are they going to be alright in there?"

Maliss chuckled. "Not a chance."

"Stop the maintenance," he said, turning to her. She stood to her feet, and with a _snap_ broke the security chief's thin ID card in half. Torin stared at her in disbelief. "Why would you do that?" he gasped.

"We're done here." She strode around the desk, stepping over the chief's body as she moved towards the entrance they had broken in through.

"We're not _done_ until you stop whatever you just did!"

Remaining silent, she passed him and he grabbed her wrist. "Are you listening to me?"

She spun around and grabbed him by the collar with both hands, winding up her fingers in his tunic and shoving him against a rack of monitors. "You don't get to touch me, kid." Her red eyebrows narrowed down over two green eyes flickering back and forth between his own, and sweat dripped from her forehead as both of them felt the heat growing in the room. "This place will burn, that Falleen will give us what we need, and we'll _end_ this. I'm sick of jumping all over the galaxy."

He glared at her. "I'm not killing innocent people."

"You're probably gonna have to kill more before all this is over." Releasing his jacket, she stepped back and let his feet fall to the floor. "And if you won't, then I will." She started for the hallway, and Torin glanced back and forth between the security desk, the monitor with the hapless people trapped in the loading bay, and the mercenary leaving him behind.

"I won't let _you_ kill them either!" He shouted after her.

With her back turned to him, she made her way past the wrecked set of doors. "Can't stop me."

Teeth gritted in anger, he ran over to the main desk and picked up both halves of the ID card, trying furiously to fit it back together and slide it in the card reader, but it was no use. The terminal was locked down, each screen blank save for a message indicating that he wasn't going to be able to do _anything_ for those people from the security room. He raced over to the surveillance screen to watch as the trapped workers ran desperately around the room, a few shouting for help at the camera as the others tried in vain to get away from the sweltering heat filling the complex. Even in the security room, removed as it was from the rest of the facility, the temperature was becoming unbearable. Torin's jacket stuck to his wet back, and sweat dripped from his jaw onto the desk in front of the monitor.

Heat, however, was the least of their—and his—worries. Soon, explosions would tear apart the facility as the volatile chemicals stored throughout succumbed to the increasing temperatures, shredding fragile ductwork and smothering whoever remained alive with poisonous fumes that would take weeks to disperse. With a pained expression and a feeling of helplessness like none he'd felt since Balmorra, he tore himself away from the screen and raced for the hallway, head hung low as he chased after the Mandalorian—not to fight to her, but to join her.

Torin and Maliss escaped from the complex with the hijacked cruiser they had entered it with, ditching the stolen vehicle on another level of the Corellian sector before taking a taxi back to Mezenti spaceport. The cityscape was an unusual and unsettling mix of quiet interspersed with brief patches of intense activity. There was hardly any air traffic, but every once in awhile they would pass a cluster of armored cruisers moving from elsewhere on the moon to the Corellian sector to join in putting down the gang war that had broken out.

The Exchange would lose, of course. There was no mass uprising of gangs across the moon, no grand plan spearheaded by Jedi spies. Just two saboteurs leaving destruction in their wake, one weighed down with immense guilt while the other showed little emotion beyond a vague look of satisfaction at a job well done.

Their taxi landed at Mezenti spaceport, and they rendezvoused with Vathamma and Nomi before moving hurriedly to their ship in one of the commercial docking bays. Even with his mind occupied and eyes fixed on the ground, Torin couldn't help but do a double-take at the Togruta's new outfit, her taut midriff and exposed cleavage lifting his spirits ever so slightly.

"The Falleen representative messaged us; their ship is in orbit." The Sith said as they walked up the ramp of her interceptor. "Can I assume your task was a success?"

Torin glanced back to the Mandalorian walking behind them. "It was, thanks to this psychopath."

The Mandalorian narrowed her eyes at him, and the other woman looked in between the two in confusion. "What is that supposed to mean?" the Sith asked.

"He's all torn up because a few factory workers won't be going back to their shitty little homes tonight," Maliss said.

He spun around and grabbed her by the shirt, not caring what the woman might do to him. " _People!"_ He shouted at her, spittle flying from between his clenched teeth. "Those were _people!"_

Seeing the Mandalorian's clenched fists, Vathamma rushed over and put herself between the two, grasping Torin by the shoulders and pushing him away from the Mandalorian before moving him towards the ship's entryway. "There's no sense in fighting now," she said. "What's done is done." With a quick glance backwards she gave a nod of approval to the mercenary, and all four entered the ship.

The Sith sat in the pilot's seat and started the ship, bringing them out of the docking bay and through Nar Shaddaa's smoggy atmosphere until they had reached the moon's upper orbit. The Cartel Representative's ship was waiting for them in space, the same massive pleasure yacht that Torin and his Master had visited some weeks before. A few ships entered and exited the docking bay's riding alongside the gently curving white hull, moving to and from Nar Shaddaa's surface. Unlike their first visit, when the vessel had been nearly empty, the bay was packed full of shuttles of all possible origins, a colorful assortment of ships that belied the diversity of guests aboard the yacht.

After leaving the confines of the interceptor they were met by a Falleen woman in a sleeveless orange dress flanked by two male guards armed with staves. They looked ritualistic in nature, but their presence made Torin uneasy nonetheless.

"The representative is occupied at the moment," the women said with a pleasant smile. "She asks that you make yourselves comfortable until she can meet with you." Her nose twitched and she leaned forward, taking an experimental sniff at the four guests before frowning. "One of you smells like a chemical plant."

Torin smiled weakly and took a step away from the others. "That's Nar Shaddaa for you."

Her upper lip still twitching, the Falleen receptionist led them towards an elevator, bringing them up several floors in the ship to a grand hallway running in both directions. Tropical plants in ornate containers flanked dozens of doorways running up and down the hall. Guests of different species entered and exited the rooms, some accompanied by scantily-clad Falleen women as they laughed and talked. Near the ends of each hall were two large entryways, with veiled entrances instead of metal doors.

Their greeter looked to Torin and motioned towards one end of the hall. "Please, enjoy the baths while you wait." She gestured to the other entrance at the opposite end of the corridor. "Your companions may do so as well."

With some reticence, Torin separated from his companions and made his way to the room at the end of the hall, undressing in an antechamber before entering the baths proper. Shallow pools of water set into the ground filled the vast room, separated by marble columns that reached upwards towards a vaulted ceiling. Humans and aliens, all male, sat in the pools and on benches lining the walls, talking to each other in hushed tones that echoed off of the smooth stone surfaces and filled the room with a constant drone, a numbing sound cut through by the occasional splash of water or slap of feet on wet marble.

Looking about, his eyes landed on a small, empty pool bubbling with heated water. He walked over to it and eased in, closing his eyes briefly and letting out a groan that bordered on the sexual as the warm water crept up his body, nearly reaching his armpits by the time he had sat down on the underwater bench. The back of his head touched the hard floor behind him as he looked up at the ceiling and closed his eyes once again, fighting the urge to drift off into blissful sleep as he luxuriated in the hot tub.

"Everyone out," came a woman's voice. Torin twisted his head back to see Sosyan standing just ahead of the entrance to the room, clad in nothing but a white towel. Every man in the room rose from the baths, and he began to follow suit.

"Not you," she said to Torin. "You stay."

The bathers hurried out, grabbing towels from benches and wrapping them around their waists before walking past the woman through the curtained exit. After the last man left, the woman let her towel fall to the floor, exposing her lithe body in all its green nudity. The reptilian Falleen looked even more snake-like without the colorful dresses he had become used to seeing them in.

She walked towards him, and he cast his eyes aside in embarrassment, though not before her image had been thoroughly burned into his memory. He had seen her naked from the waist up before, but now she wore nothing besides the small hairband wrapped around the base of the braided ponytail hanging from the back of her ridged head. As he considered what he had just seen, he was struck by the newfound knowledge that Falleen women, with their nearly bald heads and hairless brows, did indeed have hair somewhere else.

While he wondered how many human men knew that little bit of trivia, she slid into the bath beside him. He stood up and walked across to the other side of the tub, stepping over underwater jets and taking a seat opposite her.

"Why so nervous?" she purred.

"I'd like to talk while I'm in the right frame of mind." He glanced at the gills on either side of her neck.

"Is that so?" She tilted her chin up and slid down on the bench until her neck was below the waterline. "We could talk like this." Something touched the inside of his thigh and he jumped in place, then reached down to grab ahold of the foot teasing him.

"I was hoping to avoid any touching, too." He pushed her foot back.

She frowned and sat back up. "Straight to business, then."

"You know why we're here."

Sosyan nodded and stretched her arms out on the ledge behind her, leaning back until her breasts peeked out above the bubbling water. "You are on the run, and you find the ground shrinking beneath your feet at such terrifying speed that you called me for help."

He nodded hesitantly.

"And I'd _like_ to help you. Truly I would..." She trailed off and reached behind her head, then began stroking her hair braid. "But you and your Master are worth a fortune in credits to the Empire. You are interesting, but credits are _more_ interesting." She placed her hand back on the ledge and leaned her head back, then looked down her nose at him. "So I am afraid you have made a mistake in coming here."

"Thank you for telling me that in person. Not many people would have that decency."

She smiled and shrugged.

He returned her smile with one of simultaneous guilt and self-satisfaction. "Now it's my turn to apologize."

The Falleen eyed him curiously.

"We didn't come to Nar Shaddaa for no reason. There was a terrorist attack on the industrial complex that supplies a good chunk of the Empire with thermoplast flux."

She tilted her head back and laughed. "Then you're even more valuable to the Empire than before."

"That's probably true. You're coming out great from all this, actually."

She stopped laughing and looked back towards him. "What do you mean?"

"Your cartel is the only other major supplier of thermoplast flux that will work with the Empire, right?"

Her eyes narrowed, her silence answering his question.

"Thing is, we made _extra sure_ to be seen by surveillance. Now here I am, aboard your ship..." He let his words hang in the air as the Falleen grasped their implication.

"So?" She said, chewing her lip in between words. "I will still turn you over to the Empire and receive my due reward."

"You _could,_ but to the Empire—or the Hutts—that might just look like you're tying up loose ends."

Torin jerked back as the woman across from him shot to her feet. "And if I throw you and your friends out of an airlock? Will that not tie up my 'loose ends'?" Her breasts shook as she gestured wildly, green eyes ablaze and focused intently on his. He swallowed, taken aback by the sudden display of anger—this wasn't a woman who was used to having the tables turned on her.

"I'm not holding anything over your head!" He held his hands out reassuringly, and the Falleen sat back down. "In fact, I think we can help each other."

"How is that?" she asked with a guarded expression, arms folded over her chest.

"The Empire is going to come to you with a contract proposal eventually, but a certain prominent Lord—Lord Andar—he will contact you very soon, and he will pay _any_ price."

"Any price..." Her expression softened and she unfolded her arms. "And what do you expect in return for this charity?"

"I want to know where he arranges the supply exchange."

She waited for a moment, expecting more. "That's it? Not a cut of the profits? Not safe passage to Republic space?"

"Well, there is one other thing. A file, with old Republic encryption. You seem like the sort of person who can find someone able to crack that."

"I believe I can," she said. "It seems we have a deal."

"Great!" He extended his hand towards her, waiting for a handshake.

"That is not how we seal business arrangements." She stood up from her seat and sashayed over to him, then straddled his legs as she began to sit down on his lap. As she reached around his neck with both hands he placed a hand on her face and pushed, sending her falling back into the water. The irate woman shot back up, wiping her face dry.

"Sorry," he said. "I'm spoken for."

With an annoyed grunt the woman took her earlier seat. "I liked you better when you were a harmless little thing."

He smiled and shrugged. "We've all gotta grow up sometime."

"So," she said. "Which one?"

He eyed her curiously. "Which what?"

"You said you were spoken for. Which woman?"

He opened his mouth to speak, but two faces flashed before his eyes and he paused briefly. "Nomi, of course."

The woman stared at him oddly. "And which one is that?"

"The Togruta."

She furrowed her brow. "I would have guessed the human woman—your own kind."

He scratched his hairline and grimaced. "Well, I think she's..."

"She's what?"

He looked back to her and shook his head. "Nothing, it's not important."

A ripple went through the water as the Falleen rose to her feet and climbed out of the bath. Torin watched her leave silently until one more question sprang to mind.

"Wait," he said. She picked her towel up from the ground near the door and turned to look at him. "Do you know of any Falleen Sith?"

She cocked her head curiously. "No, not one." Eyes darting upward, she tapped her chin thoughtfully. "A Falleen _Jedi,_ yes—but that was years and years ago. Why?"

He frowned and cast his eyes down to the disappointed reflection in the water below him. "Just curious."

* * *

Two red woman sat alone in a shallow bath, standing out among the green Falleen filling the rest of the spacious bathhouse and both looking very uneasy for reasons beyond their nudity. Their hostess had disappeared after ushering them into the bath, leaving them to stew with no knowledge as to what was in store for them.

Vathamma sat on the side of the small bath opposite Nomi, positioned so that she could see the room's veiled entrance. Her lightsaber lay on the ground just behind her head, receiving as many curious glances as the Sith herself while the Togruta clutched a towel to her chest, hiding her breasts and drawing annoyed looks from her companion.

Finally their benefactor entered, the naked Sosyan walking over to their bath before slipping into the warm water and taking a seat between the two other women.

Vathamma cleared her throat and put on a stern face. "When my Apprentice messaged you, he did not tell you everything. In fact, our meeting above Nar Shaddaa was no accident—"

The Falleen waved her hand and scanned the room. "Yes, yes. I already went over all this with him. You'll get what you want."

The Sith raised an eyebrow. "You spoke with him? When?"

"In the mens' bath," she replied, turning to face her with a serious expression. "We were both nude, of course."

Vathamma sighed and closed her eyes, then rubbed her temples with one hand. "Of course."

"Oh, but don't worry. He stalwartly resisted my _many_ charms."

"I do not care,"the Sith stated firmly.

Sosyan looked to Nomi. "Oh, but I thought this quiet thing might." She leaned forward and snatches the Togruta's towel from her chest, and the embarrassed alien thrust her hands downward while squeezing her arms over her breasts. "He _insisted_ there was someone whose faithful love he couldn't betray."

"Isn't that _normal?"_ Nomi snapped back, hunched over far enough that the white tentacles hanging from the sides of her head dangled in the water.

"For primates, perhaps. It's funny, though..." She swiveled her head between the crimson-skinned women on either side of her and stroked her chin. "I asked him which of the women in his life he had become so enamored with, and he couldn't seem to answer without giving the matter undue thought."

She leaned back and cast an inquisitive glance to her left. "Do Sith typically become... _involved_ with their Apprentices?"

The other woman laughed. "Absolutely not; that would be anathema to the bond they share." Her eyes flickered towards Nomi, and the corner of her lip curled into a smile. "Then again, I am not a Sith Lord anymore."

Nomi's expression hardened, her passive embarrassment turning to something fiercer. "You think I do not see what you are doing? The deception, the manipulation, the mean little remarks—"

Vathamma tilted her head back and lowered her eyelids, watching the Togruta with feigned disinterest.

"—I do not know what you want from him, but it does not matter. He will never fall for an old woman with a blackened heart." She pressed her lips together, breathing heavily through her nose.

The Sith let out a short laugh and stroked the jewelry wrapped around her chin tendrils. "I should say he already has."

"Then you are delusional," the other woman snapped.

"Oh? Then the night we shared—was that delusion as well?" She grinned wickedly, and Nomi's anger flared renewed. Still seated between the two, Sosyan glanced back and forth, arms stretched out behind her while she watched the unfolding drama with idle curiosity.

"You _lie,"_ Nomi spat. "When—"

"The night after Quesh," Vathamma said, cutting her off. "My apprentice lay in my bed, scarred and alone. What was I to do?" she purred, then gestured to Nomi. Anger entered her voice, and her smile changed to a sneer. "You had shut yourself in your room, crying about the very sister he had gotten himself maimed trying to save."

The Togruta rose from the bath, fists clenched at her side as she no longer worried about such petty concerns as her own modesty. She walked to the middle of the small pool and stared down at the Sith.

"You slept with him?"

Remaining silent for a moment, the Sith looked up at her. "Yes."

"When he had just nearly died?" Her fists and voice shook, and tears welled in the corners of her eyes. "When he was so drugged on painkillers that he could barely stand?"

The Sith wrinkled her face up. "Oh, you're exagger—"

A fist connecting with her nose stopped her talking. She cried out in pain, both hands shooting up to grab her face as blood spilled out from both nostrils. "You bitch!" Vathamma shouted, whirling about to grasp at her lightsaber on the ground behind her. She turned back towards the Togruta, but the alien had already risen from the bath and was nearing the room's exit.

With a grunt of pain and a few choice swears, she slammed her lightsaber back down on the floor outside the pool and leaned back, tilting her head up to stop the flow of blood as she pinched her nostrils shut. Every other woman in the room tore their eyes away from the sight, not wanting to be the ones caught staring at the enraged Sith should she care to check what sort of audience the argument had drawn.

"Ah, to be young again," Sosyan said, giving a sly grin. "I see that the Sith approach love with all their usual subtlety."

"I am not in _love._ Sith do not _love."_ Vathamma tilted her head to the side and glared at her. "What would a Falleen know of such a thing, anyway? One might as well ask a nest of vipers for advice." She clenched her nose tightly shut as she spoke, lending her voice a nasally quality.

"You said you two share a bond, did you not?"

"The Force joins us. Such a connection is deeper than some Togruta slave's... shallow infatuation!"

"Then it sounds as if you simply need to close the gap remaining between you two." Intrigued, the Sith looked back to her and Sosyan could see that she had struck on something of interest to the woman. "You say we Falleen do not know love, but surely you can admit we know seduction?" The green woman smiled, rhythmically curling the fingers of one hand while she stroked her braided hair with the other.

"I suppose I can," the Sith admitted begrudgingly. Her eyes flickered off to both sides, as if she were worried some other interested party might overhear the clandestine conversation they were initiating. "What exactly are you suggesting?" she whispered, scooting closer to her.

The Falleen shifted on the bench as well, drawing within inches of the Sith before leaning her head towards hers. "Here's what you must do..."

* * *

Having wrapped herself in a white bathrobe, Nomi walked at a brisk pace through the guest halls of the Falleen's ship, passing other guests in varying stages of undress as she sought out Torin. Familiar laughter reached her ears, and she looked down a side hall to her right to see a similarly robed Maliss emerging from a doorway, two Falleen woman in tight purple dresses under each of her arms. She walked down the hall towards the Togruta and grinned broadly.

"I love this place!" she beamed, pulling the two fawning women close to her.

Nomi ignored the pair of Falleen and focused her attention on the Mandalorian. "Have you seen Torin?"

"That crybaby?" She pointed further down the ship, towards an opaque set of glass doors separate from the spa and bath rooms. "He's brooding in there."

Nomi spun on her heels and strode down the hall, then cracked open the door and peeked her head in. The room was only twenty or so feet deep from entrance to far wall, but over a hundred feet wide. Cushioned couches spanned the length of the room, facing a window-paneled wall that looked out into space. Torin sat just inside the room to the right of the door, head resting on the seat and eyes transfixed on a glittering starscape. Nomi slipped inside and shut the door behind her, just loudly enough to let him know she was there. He looked back at her, then stood up and smoothed out his bathrobe when he saw that it was her.

She coughed and held a hand to her chest, steadying herself and looking him in the eyes from a distance. "I know about you and your Master."

His eyes went wide and his legs locked tight even as the rest of his body seemed to grow weak. He felt his head swim, his blood turning to ice in his veins.

She walked towards him and fiddled her hands together in front of her. As she drew closer, he could see that her eyes were red. "I know what she did to you."

His confusion grew further when she wrapped her arms tightly around him and pressed the side of her head into his chest.

"You're not mad?" he said, his words unfiltered and uncalculated. This wasn't a discussion he had prepared himself for.

"It is not your fault. You are a victim."

He hated that word: 'victim'. More than that, he wondered if it truly applied to him. He thought back to that night, when he could have shouted 'no' or thrown his Master off of him. Instead, to his shame, he had simply frozen. Was his inaction from fear of the Sith? Or a way to get what he wanted without feeling that he'd betrayed Nomi's trust?

Before a few days ago, he would have answered the former, but then his Master had cornered him in his room and began pushing his buttons hard enough that he'd thrown her against a wall and pressed his body to hers. Truth was, he had no idea _what_ he would have done to her if Nomi hadn't interrupted the two.

She looked up at him, likely having no idea what thoughts swirled around in his head as they both stood in a silent embrace.

"When this is all over, we will go far, far away," she said. "You will never have to see her again."

Torin swallowed hard. "Yeah."

He pressed her to his chest, stroking the back of her head with one hand with the other wrapped around the small of her back. Outside the window, the field of stars continued its slow rotation.

* * *

A few hours later, all four companions returned to Vathamma's ship and departed the Falleen's yacht, having arranged for the Cartel to give them the information they sought as soon as it became available. Not wanting to stick around Nar Shaddaa, where authorities were urgently seeking the terrorists who had burned down an entire third of the Corellian Sector's fifth level, the Sith warped them to dead space where they sat waiting in the empty darkness.

Torin milled about his room, biting his fingernail before pulling it away and shoving both hands into his pockets. The makeshift bedroom didn't leave much room for pacing—or any other method of unleashing his nervous energy—but he didn't like the idea of leaving the solitary confines to venture out into the lounge and risk running into Nomi or his Master. Not that he was angry at either of the two women. Rather, it was his own awkwardness, his own insecurity, that had him doubting whether he was capable of having a normal conversation with either of the two.

He couldn't help but feel a bit pathetic when he considered the fact that he was shutting himself up in his room just to avoid seeing them. He'd fought gangsters, soldiers, even a few Sith, and would certainly do so again before he left this world, but the experiences that had dulled the edges of his sense of fear hadn't done much to improve his tolerance for social awkwardness.

A knock came at the door, and he moved to open it, only for the door to open before he reached it. His Master stood in the doorway, holding a flat wooden box in her hands. She stepped inside and he backed up to make room for her as she entered.

"What's that?" he said.

"Have a seat."

He knelt down on the mat and she did the same, each facing the other as she placed the container between them. It was constructed of rich, polished wood, with a simple design etched into the top—a thin circle, with four lines stretching out to each corner of the lid.

"I gave what happened to you much thought," she said, staring at the scar on the right side of his face. "And I feel I am partly to blame. I let you go into battle unprepared."

She opened the box and placed the lid gently on the padded mat below them, revealing an assortment of small metal components, both mechanical and electrical. He looked at the objects in confusion until his eyes fell on a small red crystal buried within the items, and he drew a sharp breath inward.

"A Sith should have an appropriate weapon... especially when they fight another Sith."

Using the Force, she lifted her own lightsaber from where it hung at her side and brought it in front of her until it hovered at eye-level.

"Watch carefully." Metal rings unscrewed at both ends and the hilt began to disassemble, wiring and lenses separating as the weapon was stretched out into its component pieces. Torin's eyes danced along them as she worked, taking in every minute detail until the weapon had been reduced to its smallest individual parts.

"Now you," she said. He reached out to sift through the parts, but stopped when she shook her head. "Not with your hands."

Pulling his hands back into his lap, he looked down at the box again and levitated a few of the pieces contained within into the air, dropping some back and picking others up as his eyes flickered back and forth between his Master's real-life blueprint and the parts he had been given. With some fumbling and no small amount of dropped components, he at last brought them all up into the air in front of him and began bringing them together.

That part of the task was no less difficult, and he winced as he jostled delicate fiberglass lenses against each other, throwing a few tentative glances at the woman patiently watching him work. At last every piece was slotted into its proper place, and the rings on each end of the hilt twisted into place. Vathamma quickly assembled her own saber and plucked it out of the air, and her Apprentice did the same.

The cold metal hilt lay in his open palms, a simple cylinder of steel grey with a slight dark-grey outcropping of lightsaber-resistant Cortosis between the grip and the plasma emitter. With baited breath he thumbed the button on the side of the lightsaber, then pressed down. A blade of red plasma shot upwards from the handle, pointing up towards the ceiling and entrancing him with its seductive glow. For a time he stared at it in awe, then switched off the weapon and set it down in his lap.

"What is it?" his Master said, eyeing her downcast Apprentice.

He let his shoulders droop. "I don't know if I can do this."

"Do what?"

"Maliss, she—" He cleared his throat. "She said I'd probably have to kill more people before this is all over. Ones who don't deserve it."

The Sith said nothing, and her Apprentice rolled his lightsaber between his fingers.

"This isnt me. I don't want to be a conqueror or a tyrant. I don't enjoy hurting people."

"Then I won't ask you too."

Her words weren't as comforting as they should have been, since he knew what she had deliberately left unsaid. There would inevitably come a time and place where she did something that went against every moral value he held dear. She wouldn't ask him to murder, but she would expect him to stand by silently while she swung the executioner's blade. He frowned and furrowed his brow at the saber in his hands.

"There's still something upsetting you?" she said.

"Oh, no." He glanced up at her, smiling and shaking his head. "It's just... a little plain, is all."

The Sith looked from her own curved hilt of dark, etched metal, then to her Apprentice's simple steel cylinder. Shuffling forward on her knees, she moved the empty wooden box between them off to the side and lifted up his hands with her own, bringing the lightsaber between their faces. Focusing her will on the fleshy red tendrils just below her chin, she gently removed the twin pieces of Electrum jewelry he had given her on the scavengers' sandcrawler. The cylinders of woven metal rolled in the air, a golden thread pulled forth from each that reached down and lay itself on the base of his lightsaber hilt. The Electrum threads wrapped themselves around the hilt in a spiralling double-helix, stopping when they had reached the other end of the shaft.

"There," she said, putting the finishing touch on the ornamental inlay by tucking the ends of each thread into the caps of the lightsaber hilt. She pressed his fingers down over the hilt, holding her own hands to his for just a moment longer than necessary before clearing her throat and shuffling back on the floor.

The door to the bedroom opened, and Maliss leaned in. "We got a message from the Falleen."

Vathamma raised an eyebrow. "That was fast."

"Yeah, but..." She rubbed her neck. "Well, just come and look at it."

The Sith and her Apprentice exchanged a confused look before leaving the room and walking to the lounge. A text message and a galactic map were displayed on the holographic projector. Nomi stood hunched over the console, and as the pair approached she brought up the diagram of jump ranges she had compiled earlier.

"So these are the possible systems, right?" The Mandalorian said. "Now we add in the new exchange point the Falleen gave us..."

Nomi added in an additional red circle centered between the center of the galaxy and Empire space.

"Not a lot of systems, and after we cut out the ones with obscene amounts of solar radiation, asteroid fields, all that fun stuff, we get this." A list of no more than twenty star systems appeared next to the map. One in particular stood out to everyone in the room, but the two Sith dismissed it as mere coincidence.

Vathamma nodded. "Alright, we can work with this." She crossed one arm over her chest and held her other hand out, pointing at the one system whose name she recognized. "I think it's safe to ignore this one."

"Yeah, that's what I thought," Maliss said. "Then we took a look at the encrypted file the Falleen sent back."

The Sith looked at her in surprise. "They cracked it?"

"Oh yeah, and it's a doozy." The list of systems disappeared, replaced with a holographic data table that scrolled downwards as it hovered in mid-air. Torin could recognize some of what was listed; they were all Republic ships—models, fleet roles, crew sizes, equipment records, and on and on.

"This would be a hell of a get for Imperial Intelligence if it wasn't _300 years old_ ," Torin mused. "How is this interesting enough for Andar to bother with?"

"Because that is a Republic fleet roster from _one_ battle." Nomi said, then used the console to highlight a single system on the edge of the galactic map, on the very fringes of Empire space.

"The battle that ended my people's war," the Mandalorian said, tilting her head back. "Malachor V."

* * *

Master Ziare sat at her office desk, hunched over a computer terminal. It was an austere room, even for a Jedi. The sole distinguishing features was a small potted plant with pink blossoms on one side of her wrap-around desk, a cutting she had taken years ago from a tree in the Jedi Temple on Coruscant. The temple had burned at the hands of the Sith, but the small plant stood as a defiant testament that new life could grow from the ashes of the old—and what was torn down could be rebuilt.

The new Jedi Temple on Tython was constructed both as an academy and as a symbol. A beacon of tranquility and power, nestled in a valley of the planet Grandmaster Satele Shan had discovered years ago. Ziare had been there nearly as long as her, teaching and passing on her wisdom to the next generation—one that would hopefully fare better than they had in their fight against the forces of darkness, both within and without.

There were many teachers at the academy, but none remained in the temple at such a late hour. She herself had gone home with the rest of them, only to race back to the temple after being awoken by an urgent message.

The communication hadn't come from another Jedi, or the Republic Military, or even the _Republic._ It had originated in the heart of Imperial space, beginning on Dromund Kaas and bouncing off of a dozen different private servers en route to her personal terminal at the academy, sent by an Imperial Intelligence official whose life she had saved years ago. He occasionally forwarded what bits of intel he could without drawing undue suspicion.

Ziare had never directed him to look out for anything specific until a few weeks ago, when she had participated in the strike team that had assaulted Darth Dominus' flagship. Now, the fruits of her mole's work had paid off.

She opened the file to find a security stream of a stark metal corridor, filmed by a camera pointed away from the fortified entryway of some factory complex. The video's headings marked it as the Industrial Sector on Nar Shaddaa. She brushed her short brown hair away from her tired eyes and propped her chin up on her hands, watching the video. After several minutes the playback indicator reached the marker her informant had flagged as a point of interest. Two figures passed by the camera, a young man with swept-back auburn hair and a tall redheaded woman.

The man was staring off to his right away from the camera, eyes scanning their flank. She paused the video and tapped a few buttons on the keyboard in front of her. A new window popped up next to the video, a facial recognition program that ran for several moments before stopping on a face just like that of the man in the video.

"Torin," she said, reaching out to run her fingers over the face on the security footage. "There you are."

She resumed playing the video, and as Torin approached the camera he met its empty gaze and grinned, giving a thumbs-up. As he turned he exposed the right side of his face, revealing a vicious lightsaber scar running down the side of his head. Ziare inhaled sharply and pressed her face into her hands, stopping her lip from trembling before turning her eyes back to the recording of the man she had met just weeks before—one with bright eyes, an honest voice, and no scars.

Standing from the chair and switching off the computer, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath in before leaving her office and navigating a corridor to the temple's main hall.

A domed ceiling adorned with floral inlays of gold and silver hung over the two story chamber. Two curved ramps led to the second floor, winding around the room's centerpiece, a floating dodecahedron kept aloft by the Force that imbued the temple. Her eyes ran up and down its slowly-spinning sides as she ascended one of the ramps, examining the geometric designs and gems dug into its surface. Upon reaching the second floor, she stood directly in front of the Jedi Council room. An intimidating set of double doors reaching up to the ceiling sat sealed in front of her, doors that would not open for many hours yet.

She took a seat on a bench beside the door and closed her eyes. For hours she sat in meditation, the temple growing busier the longer she waited. Her attention was briefly drawn outward when she heard the distinctive footfalls of Grandmaster Shan, then the creak of the huge doors next to Ziare as the Grandmaster and her companions entered the room. For hours they debated and deliberated whatever the matters of the day were, and still Ziare waited.

At last the doors opened once again, and she lifted her eyelids to see that the sun entering through the windows circling the temple's dome had grown dim with the new evening. Passing by the Jedi Masters leaving the Council room, she stepped inside to see Shan seated at the far side of a large circular table filling the majority of the room. The shape of the table was supposed to indicate that all seated at it were equals, and that the Grandmaster was first among equals—but that was mere philosophy. Grandmaster Shan was undoubtedly the woman in charge of the Jedi order, and the person she would have to petition.

"Grandmaster Shan." Ziare gave a deep bow, and Shan looked up from the datapad in front of her. She wore a sleeveless green tunic with armbands wrapped around both arms, showing off an athletic body that her office had done little to diminish. Despite her advancing years, there was little indication of such besides the few crows' feet beside her narrow eyes and the slight greying of her braided black hair. Ziare was only two years younger and already felt the weight of time in a way that hadnt seemed to affect the other woman.

"Master Ziare." She set the tablet down. "What can I do for you?"

"I have found him," she said.

Shan leaned forward in her chair and propped her elbows up on the table, clasping her hands in front of her. "The Sith apprentice?"

Ziare nodded.

"I don't understand this obsession," she replied. "You want to capture _one_ Sith, because you believe you can turn him towards the light."

"I will not need to—he never fell."

Shan thought for a moment, then shook her head. "The war is at a tipping point. We can't spare the resources for something like this."

"I am not asking for resources. I am asking for _leave."_

"And we can't spare _you,"_ Shan said with a pleading expression. "You're talking about entering hostile space, alone. What if something were to happen to you?"

Ziare remained silent for a moment, staring at the seated woman. "You of all people should understand."

A barely perceptible flicker of emotion passed across the Grandmaster's tranquil expression, and she leaned back in her seat as she furrowed her brow thoughtfully. Ziare didn't enjoy poking at old wounds, but she knew of no other way to make the woman see things from her perspective.

"I'm not going to sway you from this, am I?"

Ziare shook her head. "No."

Shan sighed. "Very well. You are released from your duties until you return."

"Thank you, Grandmaster." She bowed again, then turned to leave the room.

"And Master Ziare..." the Jedi stopped at Shan's words. "Make sure you _do_ return."

With a somber expression Ziare nodded, then left the council chambers.


	21. Falling Down

Torin leaned against the lounge room wall, rubbing his head. "So the file lists the Republic ships involved in the battle of Malachor V... that can't be a coincidence." He looked at the map, where the forbidden system lay smack in the middle of the area that could possibly contain Lord Andar's shipyards.

"It's not," his Master said. "In fact, it's the perfect place to hide mass construction."

Maliss laughed. "Its _insane._ The exosphere is a minefield—asteroids, wrecks, ion storms...

Torin looked between the two. "What do you mean?"

"What do you know Malachor V?" Maliss said.

He shrugged and crossed his arms. "A huge battle. The Republic crushed the Mandalorians, and that ended the Mandalorian wars."

"It was a lot uglier than that." She held her hands out in front of her and stared at him as if she were recounting a harrowing tale she had personally witnessed. "The Jedi General, Revan, lured the Mandalorians into a pitch battle they couldn't resist, with a weakened Republic fleet as bait. Once they were in range, he triggered a superweapon that used the planet's gravity to crush everything within orbit of the planet. Republic and Mandalorian ships, all torn apart and dragged to the planet's surface."

"Sacrificing his own fleet was part of the plan?"

Vathamma nodded at her Apprentice. "Brilliant, isn't it?"

"The ships weren't the worst of it," Maliss continued. "The weapon _broke_ the planet. You have to see it to believe it."

Torin thought for a moment. "That weapon... why have I never heard of anything like that?"

"The engineer who built it disappeared and took his work with him. No one else could reverse-engineer it, not without the blueprints or the original. God knows they tried."

"And what happened to the original?"

Maliss shrugged. "Used. Gone."

Vathamma waved her hand, as if clearing away the conversation. "What's important is that we know where Lord Andar's shipyards are. We can jump to a safe location on the edge of the system and scan it from afar. Then we'll have hard data to present to Imperial intelligence, and that man can try explaining the existence of unsanctioned naval construction in a forbidden system."

Maliss and Torin went to the cockpit, the former starting them on a course for the safe celestial body of Malachor II while the latter kicked back in his seat, looking up at the switches and lights above the cockpit window while stars flew by their ship in a blur.

"Sorry for calling you a psychopath," he said.

Maliss' eyes flickered over to him. "What brought this on?"

The ship hummed softly as they moved through hyperspace, passing entire star systems in the blink of an eye. "'I'm trying not to leave things unsaid."

"Oh, hell," she sighed. "Don't do that. It makes me feel like I'm gonna die soon." The silence returned, and she glanced over at him a few more times before finally speaking. "You got all worked up at me for killing those workers on Nar Shaddaa. You realize how many people your Master's killed, right?"

He closed his eyes and ran a hand over his face. "Yeah."

"And you're ok with that?"

"Of course I'm not."

"Then why do you keep following her?" She turned towards him, waiting for an answer as Torin looked away from her towards the other side of the cockpit. "Oh, boy. You're in love with her, aren't you?"

"No," he said, still looking away.

"Well, did you fuck her?"

He inhaled sharply and pursed his lips. "None of your business."

She grinned and leaned towards him from her chair. "First it's 'no', but now it's none of my business?" A finger pressed into his cheek, twisting back and forth as the woman teased him. "You did, didn't you?"

Unable to help but crack a smile, he stifled a laugh and swatted away her hand. She leaned back in her chair and resumed watching out the cockpit window, letting out one last snort of amusement before the pair allowed a comfortable silence to return to the cabin.

After another two hours of travel they dropped out of hyperspace, the hazy warp tunnel surrounding them slowing until it coalesced into a coherent reality. Innumerable shipwrecks and floating scrap metal hung in space all around them, moving towards them at frightening speed as their ship's momentum carried them through the field of debris.

"Shit!" Maliss shouted, pulling back on the control column in front of her to narrowly avoid a chunk of hull tumbling through space. Bits of metal scraped at their hull as she whipped the ship up and down, winding them through the field of junk while warning lights flashed all over the cockpit cabin and sirens blared, warning them of countless impending impacts. Torin squeezed his fingers around his armrests and winced as a small asteroid bounced off of the window beside him, the only thing between him and the cold vacuum of space.

"What the hell is this?" He glanced at Maliss who kept her eyes on the path ahead while she used one hand to switch off the warning noises blaring in their ears. "Malachor II was supposed to be safe!"

"It _is,"_ she said. "We must have gotten pulled off track by Malachor V's hyperspace signature."

He looked at her in disbelief. "And you didn't think of that before you warped us here?"

"It's not an exact science!" She looked over at him, taking her eyes off of the debris field. "Do _you_ want to try flying?"

"No, no!" He pointed at the cockpit window. "Just _please,_ focus on piloting."

After a few more minor impacts that had their ship groaning in protest, they came to a clearing in the spinning field of metal and rock.

That was when Torin got his first glimpse of Malachor V.

Whatever the planet once was, that was long gone. What hung in space was a shriveled sphere of black rock, wracked by lightning storms that leapt across the massive fissures criss-crossing it. The fractured planet looked to be torn between flying off into separate chunks, and totally collapsing in on itself like a dead star. An artificial ring of dead ships and asteroid-sized rocks drifted about the planet, receiving an occasional jolt of lightning shooting hundreds of miles through space in a vicious display of force, like the planet itself were capable of hatred.

A creeping chill crept up his arms, making the hairs on his neck stand on end. The planet had a draw to it, like he stood on the cusp of some great void that called to him, telling him to jump.

Vathamma and Nomi entered the cockpit, the latter leaning on Torin's headrest while the former peered past the captain's chair.

"Do you feel that?" He said to his Master. The planet pulled on him, both body and soul.

"I do," she replied. "This place is steeped in the Dark Side of the Force."

He swallowed hard and looked out at the graveyard of ships. The battle their crews had fought and died in had taken place over three centuries ago, but he felt as if he had walked in on a murder scene and found a freshly warm body. He'd seen war, but this was something else entirely. All those lives, snuffed out with the press of a button—he could hardly grasp the inhumanity of it.

As his eyes scanned the ships around them, his eyes fell on the gutted-out hulk of a Republic flagship. Something about it looked odd. He leaned forward in his seat, squinting as he stared upwards through the front window. Both sides of the hull had been stripped off, leaving only the top and bottom of the long vessel. Inside, metallic scaffolding stretched across the exposed midsection, and inside the scaffolding sat smaller ships. Fighters, maybe—was it a carrier?

His eyes went wide as he recalled the blueprint for the stealth fighter, and realized where he had seen the ships before. Twisting back in his seat, he motioned for his Master to come forward.

"They're building the fighters _inside_ the wrecks!" He pointed towards the flagship, and the other three crew members stared up where he was pointing.

"Well that's rather creative," the Sith said. "But it begs the question of what Lord Andar is doing with the rest of the supplies. All of that Durasteel was being used for _something_ more than a few wings of stealth frigates."

They crested one of the makeshift construction bays and came upon a huge gap in the debris field several miles long. At first Torin thought it was a mere random result of how the chunks of Malachor and the ship wreckage were strewn about, but upon closer examination he something moving through the open space. Countless small droids, simple star-shaped discs with thrusters on one side and hooked claws on the other. They flew about, latching onto bits of junk and moving it around the open area, as if they were protecting it. Occasionally a large chunk of engine or hull would come towards them, and several would latch onto it like ticks, then flare their thrusters in a group effort.

"Do you see that?" he asked, turning to his companions. No one answered, and the other three looked just as confused as him.

A hollow _thunk_ on the hull had Torin grabbing his armrests and looking up for the source of the noise. The ship lurched to the side, nearly sending them off course until Maliss gave a hard yank to the right on the steering column.

"Debris?" he said.

The Mandalorian examined the ship display on the console in front of her, looking for the source of the impact. Another strike to the ship drew everyone's attention back to the front window. One of the droids had latched onto the window and began burning its engine at full power, pushing them even further off course.

"It's those goddamn droids!" She struggled to steer the ship back towards the open area of space, but more droids began attaching themselves to the hull and pushing them to the left with a cumulative strength that threatened to overpower their engines.

"Can we shoot them off?" Torin said in a panic, growing increasingly nervous as their ship veered in the direction of a dense field of debris deposited by the robots.

The Mandalorian laughed. "Sure, I'll give you my gun. Just climb out there—" she glared at him. "They're _on_ the hull, you idiot!"

Thinking quickly, Nomi shifted positions behind Maliss, shoving aside the Sith and leaning over the Mandalorian's console. "Turn off the shields." Maliss threw her an impatient glance while her muscles strained against the control stick. "When you re-activate them, the hull will polarize and send a shock through anything touching it."

"Screw it," their pilot said, leaning forward and flipping a switch on the dashboard. An electronic whine coursed through the ship as their shields fell, the sound growing weaker until it faded away completely. The structure of the ship itself was no less noisy, the entire vessel creaking in protest against the opposing forces of their own engines and the droids covering their starboard side. She flipped the switch again, and the earlier noise sounded in reverse as the shield capacitors flooded with energy and extended a protective barrier around the hull. Their ship swung hard to the right, bringing them back on course—then nearly off course in the opposite direction—before Maliss regained control and breathed a sigh of relief.

The droids tumbled through space away from the ship in all directions, a few having been flung directly ahead of them towards the open area they had been safeguarding. They exploded in empty space without warning, and everyone aboard the interceptor stared out the cockpit window in shock. The very fabric of space shimmered and warped, beginning at the points of the explosions and spreading outward, revealing a white and gray hull that extended far in either direction.

Mouth agape, Torin leaned forward and looked first to his left, then to his right. The ship must have been a mile long, at least. Long and cylindrical, it had four massive toruses that spun around the ship, attached to the main section by scaffolded spokes. There were no fighter bays, laser turrets, or missile emplacements on the sleek surface. The only indication that it was a ship and not a space station was the tight grouping of engines just barely visible on the far end.

"What _are_ those? Torin said, pointing at one of the rotating sections.

"They create artificial gravity in the main section," Maliss replied. "But that tech is millenia old, and that ship is new. No idea why they'd build it like that."

They weren't left time to wonder. The ship shook from a new impact, nearly sending Vathamma and Nomi sprawling to the floor before they grabbed onto whatever handhold they could find in the cockpit.

"The shields!" Nomi shouted, motioning for Maliss to repeat their earlier trick.

"It's not droids." The Mandalorian pushed the thrusters harder and zoomed towards the massive ship in front of them, nearly scraping the hull before pitching the ship downward and bringing them barrelling down the side of the flagship's curved hull. "It's cannon fire."

Another impact rocked the ship, this one accompanied by a frantic beep that filled the cockpit, warning them that another few hits like that would breach their shield. In the co-pilot's chair, Torin leaned over his terminal and looked for the source of the attack. Their radar was a mess of broken starships, but he should have been able to see _something,_ if only for a moment.

"I've got nothing!" he said. "There's nothing out there!"

"There is—we just can't see it." His Master leaned between the two chairs. "We need to get out of here _now."_

Maliss scoffed. "Well, we're not jumpin', not this close to the planet."

A hail of laser fire raked their hull, whatever invisible ship pursued them having followed them to the other side of the flagship.

"If we stay here were dead." Vathamma pointed ahead, towards the chunks of Malachor V floating in a tight ring around the planet. "Lose them in there."

"It's our funeral." Maliss hit the afterburners, rocketing them towards the asteroid field. She slowed them down again as they passed the first small bits of rock and dust littering the space all around them, maintaining as much speed as possible without running headlong into one of the miniature moons drifting by. More laser fire flashed past, breaking smaller chunks off of the asteroids and pelting their hull with debris. As they drew closer to the planet itself, they flew into the lightning storms they had seen shooting up from the planet's surface. Green electricity surged from asteroid to asteroid, flashing across their view in a silent display of power. A bolt of lightning shot past their ship from a rock up ahead, strafing their hull and making Maliss veer violently to one side.

Torin looked down at the radar, where an interceptor-sized blip appeared on the screen. "They're hit! Their cloak is down!" The red indicator dropped back even as their own kept moving, gradually disappearing from the screen entirely. He leaned back and breathed a sigh of relief. "We can thank Malachor V for that one—"

Another lightning strike came, this one piercing their weakened shield and sending a current through the ship. Maliss and Torin both jumped in their seats as sensitive electronics were blown out by the powerful surge of electricity. The Mandalorian put her hands back on the controls and tried to regain control of the ship, but any control she had was overwhelmed by the ship's momentum.

"That took out all our power," she exclaimed. With no shield to ward off the debris all around them, gravel and rocks pounded their bare hull.

"Then why are we still accelerating?" Vathamma said.

Maliss pulled up uselessly on the control stick, unable to turn the ship more than a few degrees away from the approaching surface of Malachor V. "It's the planet's goddamn gravity. I can't do a thing!"

The planet filled their entire view, Malachor's cracked surface of ashen rock drawing ever closer as they picked up more and more speed. The planet might as well have been a black hole. Maliss leaned back in her seat, pulling up on the controls with all her might to try and bring them out of their dive. They breached the atmosphere and were pelted by wind and rocks as a lightning storms raged around them, threatening another strike that would sap the last reservoirs of power from the ship's depleted batteries.

"This is gonna be rough!" Maliss yelled, though that was already apparent to everyone in the cabin. Nomi and Vathamma ran to the rear of the cockpit and strapped themselves into two of the seats lined up against the back wall, holding onto their harnesses as Torin nervously double-checked his own. A rocky outcropping scraped the underside of their ship, stripping away hull and tilting their ship forward. Maliss worked the controls, trying to guide them towards what passed for a landing strip in the mountainous terrain, but it was useless. The planet itself would decide where they were going down.

They struck another jagged peak, this one shattering and absorbing some of the momentum they had built up in their descent. The ship touched down on the surface of the planet, throwing everyone up in their seats and making their stomachs lurch with the force of the impact. They slid on the ground for what felt like minutes, their cockpit smashing through black rocks and rough hills that pelted the front windows until spidery cracks had formed across every inch of the fiberglass. Up ahead Torin saw that the rough terrain ended, and breathed a sigh of relief that the rollercoaster ride was nearing its conclusion—until his eyes drew lower on the horizon, and he realized that _all_ of the terrain ended. A deep crevice awaited them, and he didn't want to find out how deep it was.

Extending his arms out to both sides, he reached out with both hands and grasped for something—anything—outside of their ship. Projecting his awareness past their ship's hull, he reached out with the Force and began grabbing onto the boulders and outcroppings of rock hurtling past them as their ship slid towards the terrifying drop up ahead. His Master saw what he was doing and joined her strength with his, both Sith lashing out with the Force to dissipate their ship's momentum on the surrounding terrain. It was working. Torin could feel the ship slowing, the scraping noise below them growing less grating and the ground in front of them approaching less quickly. Finally the ship slid to a stop, the front end teetering forward briefly over the brink of the canyon before tilting back upright and settling on solid ground.

He sat back in his seat and let out an immense sigh of relief as his arms fell to his sides. "Nice landing," he said to the woman next to him.

"That better not be sarcasm." The Mandalorian unbuckled her harness and stood up, then turned to him. "It _was_ a nice—"

Her words cut short, and her annoyed expression shifted to confusion, then shock. "Your face..." He ran a hand along the right side of his face, thinking that his scar had split open at some point in the crash, but he felt no blood.

No scar, either.

The flesh where his scar had once been was unmarred, without so much as a mole or razor bump. The hair hadn't regrown, but besides that it was like he had never had a lightsaber held to his head.

Vathamma gripped both sides of his head and swiveled it about, examining him as if she couldn't believe her own eyes. "This is the second time! How did you do that?" The question was rhetorical. His Master had no reason to believe he had the answer, but he did, at least partially—he didn't know _how_ he had healed himself, but he knew where the power to do so had come from.

Brushing her hands side, he stood up from his seat and avoided the curious stares of his shipmates. "It's not something I can do deliberately." His Master continued eyeing him, clearly not satisfied with that non-explanation. "The mystic—the one on Voss—he said that I don't draw on the Force in the normal way. I get my power from... all this." He swept his hand at the cockpit window, gesturing to the planet outside.

His Master furrowed her brow. "Well _yes,_ this place is strong—"

"I don't mean the planet-I mean the battle. Somehow, for some reason, I'm feeding on the deaths that happened here. Just like when we first met on that battlefield."

She stared at him blankly, and Torin felt two sets of fingers press into his upper back.

"What, like some cosmic vampire?" Maliss said with a wicked grin. He shrugged her hands free and looked back to his Master, whose eyes were narrowed at him.

"And you didn't think I was deserving of this knowledge?" She pointed a robed hand at her chest. "Your Master?" With a disgruntled _'hmmph'_ she spun on her heels and went to leave the bridge while he stammered away, searching for an explanation before closing his mouth and starting after her. They followed the Sith woman to the lounge, Nomi and Maliss each grabbing a blaster on their way out. Torin tapped the lightsaber that hung from his waist, still in disbelief that he carried such a weapon. Standing in the stairwell near the ship's exit, he moved to lower the ramp but was stopped by the Mandalorian.

"You're not gonna last long out there without this." She shoved a breathing mask into his hands, then handed another two to Nomi and Vathamma before strapping on her own. The gray facemask wrapped around her ears, covering her mouth and nostrils

He slapped the ramp button and waited until the ramp touched the black gravel below their ship. All four stepped out onto Malachor V. In the atmosphere above the lightning storm still raged, but the surface of the planet was dead quiet. It was cold and hot, all at once—a chill set into his bones while pinpricks of heat ran up his back, as if the planet itself wanted him gone. In front of them were sharp mountain peaks and misshapen hills, all of it as black as the bottomless depths of the canyon to their rear.

"We should find high ground while we wait for the ship's batteries to recharge," Maliss said.

"What about ships?" Nomi said. "Are there not other ships on the planet?"

Vathamma frowned "They're 300-year old _wrecks,_ you idiot girl. How would we even find one?"

"Huh." Maliss had brought her wrist-bound computer up, above which was projected a holographic display. "There's distress beacons coming from the Republic ships."

The Sith looked at her curiously. "How many?"

" _All_ of them. All over the planet, like someone activated them on purpose-"

The Mandalorian stopped and turned around, backing away from the ship at an increasing speed. The other three followed, glancing back at the ground they had stood on as gravel and sand began to roll towards the ship. A sharp _'snap'_ broke the oppressive quiet, and a crack shot across the ground between them and the ship. With no more warning than that single sound the ship fell into the crevice along with the outcropping of ground it had been balanced on. All four companions stared in shock at the open space where their only means of transport had once stood.

"Fuck!" Maliss threw her blaster to the ground, laughing in exasperation and throwing her hands up in the air before sighing and picking the weapon back up. "Now what?"

Torin moved closer to the canyon, edging just close enough to look downwards. As the three behind him shouted and argued, he felt the force tugging on him growing stronger the longer he stood there. It wasn't down towards the center of the fractured planet. It was somewhere else on the surface, further along the canyon.

"There's something here!" Torin shouted back, only to be met by the continued arguing of the other three. "I can feel something!"

"What are you talking about?" his Master said, and the other two grew silent.

"I'm not sure what it is." He pointed along the canyon's edge to their right, then clutched the breast of his jacket. "It's like I've got one half of a magnet in my chest."

Maliss raised an eyebrow. "And you want us to follow your... chest magnet?"

They stood silently until Vathamma pressed her lips together and began walking in the direction he had pointed. "You can't use the Force, but you can trust in it," she said as she brushed a hand over the Mandalorian's arm.

With a begrudging grunt Maliss followed her, Torin jogging to the front of the line as Nomi brought up the rear. He could feel the Togruta's eyes burning a hole in his back. She hadn't said a word about what he'd revealed, and he had no idea what was going on inside that horned head of hers. Was she frightened? Confused? Amazed?

He thought while he walked, the group treading along the fissure's edge before coming to a twist in the canyon and moving west. Less than an hour had passed by the time Torin stopped and approached the edge.

"There." He pointed down into the canyon, and his companions moved closer to see where he was gesturing. Built into the side of the cliff opposite them was a grand entryway leading into the rock face. Stone arches hung above the door, terminating in pointed tips that met in series above the hidden entrance.

"It looks _evil,"_ Nomi said. "What is that doing here?"

Vathamma looked down to her right and began descending a stairwell that led down into the depths. "It's a Sith temple. A very ancient one."

They descended the stairway, a passage of steps hewn from the black rock of the cliff and polished to a smooth finish. They stepped out onto a platform and walked across a wide bridge that spanned the canyon. Noxious green fumes rose out of the murky depths on either side of the bridge, and Torin suddenly felt very thankful for the respirator covering his nose and mouth. Upon entering the temple they were met with a stone antechamber lit by red strips of gently-throbbing light fixtures that ran all over the walls and floors. The chamber split into three different hallways, two curving off towards the sides while the third ran straight ahead.

"This way." Torin took the forward hallway, and the other three followed.

Before they left the chamber, Maliss came to a stop and looked to her left down one of the side corridors. "Did you hear that?" She looked back forward, but the other three had already walked out of earshot. Her hand moved to her blaster and she broke off from the group, moving down the hall as she searched for the source of the whisper she was sure she had heard. The sound grew louder as she walked down the hall, though no more comprehensible. She passed room after empty room, walking quickly while scanning the temple for whoever was making the maddening noise. As she passed another doorway the whispers stopped, and so did she.

To her right was a circular chamber, the walls lined with three levels of shelves lit by more strips of red lighting fixtures. The shelves were filled with holocrons, metal pyramids with jeweled caps and twisted designs etched into the sides that glowed blood-red. And inside the ancient computers? Forbidden knowledge—the kind interested parties would pay a fortune for.

"Jackpot." Maliss grinned and ran to one of the shelves, picking up holocron after holocron and tossing them to the floor as she searched out the most valuable looking ones. Without a way to quickly determine what was inside them, she simply decided to keep her eye out for any that looked particularly old. Her head snapped to the side, her eyes darting across the room and hand returning to her blaster as the whispers began again. Dropping a holocron to the ground, her eyes fell on another shelf. She walked over to it, the feverish whispering turning to a maddening roar that filled her skull.

Before she knew what she had done, her hand shot out and grabbed one of the holocrons, and the room went quiet. She rolled the device around in her hands, examining the silvered edges and circuit-lined facade before stuffing it into a pouch on her utility belt.

The other three had left the hallway they had entered and emerged into a space that was more cavern than room. Unfinished rock walls and a domed ceiling surrounded a massive open space containing a single platform. Two bridges led to the circular disc—the narrow bridge the three were crossing, and another one leading further into the temple on the other side of the platform. Horn-like columns stuck out wickedly from the ground around the edge of it, giving the structure the look of a cage.

"Spooky," Maliss said from behind the three, making all but the Sith woman jump in surprise.

"What were you doing back there?" Vathamma said.

"Thought I heard someone."

As they got closer the pull Torin experienced grew stronger as well. At the center of the platform lay a device twice as wide as his wingspan, and about half as tall. Constructed of black paneled metal, it consisted of a single rectangular compartment with two flattened discs on either side. What looked to be power cable were connected to the sides, and they ran off the platform into the depths of the cavern. Set into the top of the device was a computerized interface, though it appeared inactive.

For all the device's banal simplicity, Torin had never felt something so completely and utterly _wrong._ The cold, dark sickness enveloping the planet all concentrated in something man himself had made. Whatever this was, it shouldn't exist.

"This is it," Torin said. "This is what I felt."

"What is it?" Nomi reached her hand out to touch it.

"That, my dear, is the Mass Shadow Generator."

The Togruta yanked her hand back, and all four looked around for the source of the familiar voice. A fist-sized orb came floating down on the other side of the device. The small camera on the front of it flickered to life, and a hologram formed before them. Lord Andar, clad in the uniform of a military leader with his hands clasped behind his back. A cloak hung over his shoulders, kept in place by a gilded chain stretched across his chest.

"What is this?" Vathamma snapped, looking around for any more unwanted surprises in the vast temple cavern.

"This is you leading me to the last thing I require to engineer the downfall of both the Empire and Republic. At one point I had given all hope of finding it." He looked to Torin. "That file the Mandalorian stole? We cracked it months ago. Unfortunately, what we sought was not onboard the ship that had carried it here. Someone had moved it. Then you came along, someone with a very peculiar relationship to the Force. My Apprentice assured me that should you reach this planet, you would be drawn to the Mass Shadow Generator like a moth to a flame."

Torin jabbed a finger at him and narrowed his eyes. "You think we're going to let you take this thing and destroy another planet?"

"I don't destroy, that was always your Master's domain-I build." He clenched his fist in front of him. "A cloaked fleet? That can win a battle. An armada of stealth ships capable of deploying _anywhere_ in the galaxy at a moment's notice? That will win a war."

"So this was all some grand plan of yours?" Torin said.

"Oh, I don't know if I would say that. Providence deserves some of the credit."

Movement sounded at the end of the hall, near the entryway they had first come through. A familiar feminine figure walked towards them, flanked by three masked men on either side. She carried a purple lightsaber in her right hand, while her compatriots removed the vibroswords strapped across their backs.

"I would not have been so grandiose to see the Force's hand in these events, but then I discovered _why_ my Apprentice hates you so much. Now I cannot help but feel that events have been guided by some higher power."

"What are you talking about?" Torin said as he ducked behind one of the platform's pillars. His companions had already done the same, all four watching the group of seven draw closer. The Falleen in the center wore a respirator mask and a black bodysuit that covered her from neck to toe. Her henchmen were dressed similarly, though their heads were covered by full-faced filtration masks with red goggles that made them look more demonic than human.

"It's not important," Andar continued. " _You_ are not important, not anymore." He gestured at the device in the center of the platform. "This is."

The generator was yanked free of its moorings, dragged towards the entryway as the power cables hanging from either side snapped free. Torin leapt out from his cover, grabbing onto the generator with the Force as he fell onto his side with a pained grunt. The Falleen used the Force on it, straining against Torin in a battle of wills with the unpowered superweapon hanging in the balance. The six men on either side of Isatryn ran down the bridge towards Torin, and he scrambled to his feet, careful to keep one hand extended towards the generator scraping back and forth on the bridge with each pull by he and the Falleen.

Vathamma whirled out from behind a pillar and threw her lightsaber through the air at their attackers, a spinning red blade that sailed harmlessly beneath the feet of the masked assassin who jumped over it as he ran. The saber continued through the air until the she drew back her hand forcefully, bringing the blade towards her like a boomerang. It cut through the man's midsection, separating him at the waist and sending both halves falling off the edge of the bridge into the bottomless precipice below.

Maliss and Nomi split their blaster fire between two of the sprinting assassins, who blocked the bolts with quick swings of their blades. The Togruta switched her target to the Mandalorian's, shooting at the man's legs while he blocked his upper body from Maliss' attack. Blaster bolts struck his shins, making him fall to his knees and allowing the pair to fell him with a few more shots.

Two assassins had died, but the other four closed ranks with Torin's companions. His Master engaged two on one side of the arena in a duel of lightsaber and vibroswords, while Maliss and Nomi beat a hasty retreat from the other two soldiers, running across the edge of the platform while they slowed their attackers with wild shots to their rear.

Still struggling to pull the generator free of Torin's iron grip, Isatryn's eyes flickered to his companions. She released it, and Torin fell onto his back from the sudden change in force. The Falleen threw her hands at Nomi, sending a shockwave hurtling towards the group. The Togruta and the two assassins nearby were thrown from the platform, Maliss managing to grab hold of a pillar as she was nearly pushed off with them. Torin's mouth dropped open and he scrambled up, running for the edge while Isatryn used the Force to once again pull on the generator, this time with no one fighting her for it.

Hurtling towards the edge, Torin leapt forward and desperately extended his hands outward as he landed chest-first on the precipice and pulled upward with the Force. For a terrifying moment he wasn't sure if he had made it in time, but then he saw the startled Nomi floating up from out of the gloom. With gritted teeth he used one hand to push himself to his feet, and with the other flung the Togruta up onto the platform where she landed on all fours. Turning back to the exit, he saw that the Falleen-and the generator being dragged behind her-were nearing the temple's exit.

"We have to stop her!" he shouted to his Master as she cut down the last of her two attackers. All four companions sprinted down the bridge, but ground to a halt as they neared the arched exit. Blaster fire came from the sky, hitting the cliff face above the temple and sending boulders hurtling to the ground, shaking the cavernous room with each impact. Torin held his arms up in front of his face, waving away the dust that had been kicked up into the air.

"Push!" Beside him, his Master was using the Force to push against the landslide of rocks that was blocking their path. He joined his efforts with hers, but it was no use—they may as well have tried to move the mountain itself. A rumble passed through the temple, at first fooling him into thinking they had managed to shift the boulders. Both Sith stopped and looked around for the source of the noise, but it was everywhere, emanating from the very planet itself.

"That's not good." Maliss, who had caught up with them on the bridge, walked along the edge while peering into the cavernous depths below. "Did you _see_ this planet on the way in? It shouldn't have held together this long. Now we know how it managed."

Another rumble, then a tremor that shook the bridge and all those atop it. Without the gravitational effects of the Mass Shadow Generator sustaining it, the fractured planet was coming apart.

"How long do we have?" Torin said.

"Do I look like a seismologist? All I know is that if were not buried by earthquakes, we'll freeze to death when this planet starts losing what little atmosphere it's got."

Vathamma pointed to the exit on the other side of the platform. "We're getting out of here."

They began to run, dodging the gravel and loose stones falling from the ceiling with each quake that shook the temple.

"Does that _lead_ out of here?" The Mandalorian asked between breaths as she sprinted.

The Sith ignored her question. Either it was an exit, or it wasn't. If it wasn't, they were all dead. Even if it did lead out onto the planet's surface, they wouldn't be long for this world unless they found a way off of the planet.

"Can you create a map of those Republic distress beacons you saw?" the Sith said to the other woman.

Maliss held up her wrist communicator and brought up a holographic display. "Yeah, I've got it."

"Find us the closest ship. Something small, that could have survived a crash intact."

While the mercenary searched through the listings, they kept running and entered a tall, vaulted hallway at the end of which was a sheer stone wall. The corridor split into two halls running to the left and right, both of which looked to lead deeper into the complex.

"We're breaking through," Vathamma said to her Apprentice. He nodded and held up his clenched fists as they ran, then threw them forward in time with hers, opening his hands and sending a shockwave hurtling forward ahead of them. The blast broke through the wall like a battering ram, carving out a chunk of rock more than large enough for them to pass through. As the dust cleared, the twisted landscape of Malachor's surface revealed itself and the group emerged from the temple into what passed for fresh air on the poisoned planet.

"Up that way." Maliss pointed to their left, up a long slope that led back to the precipice of the canyon they had crossed on their way into the temple. They ran, legs aching and lungs burning as they struggled against the harsh terrain, scrambling on blackened gravel and sandy ash on their way to the canyon's edge.

They came to the top of a plateau and saw, nestled in a jagged outcropping of rock that hung over the side of the fissure, a rusted Republic ship. It consisted of a large thick flat disc that sat atop the broken pillars of rock it had come to rest on, with a bridge and cockpit on the front of the ship that hung out over the canyon. Jutting out of the bottom of the disc was a second ship that hung in a precarious balance. The paint had long since faded from its ash-blackened hull, but the design looked far different from the vessel it had pierced like an arrow. It was no more than a hundred feet long from bow to stern, with a cockpit on the front that terminated in a narrow edge, giving the entire vessel the look of a hatchet.

"That's _not_ going to fly," Vathamma said, sliding to a stop before the tangle of wreckage lying before them.

Maliss looked at the display projected above her wrist. "Well, this is it for nearly eighty miles."

The Sith threw her hands up and laughed in exasperation. Torin walked closer to the Republic corvette to take a closer look at the ship that had struck it all those centuries ago.

"What about that thing?" He shouted back at the group, pointing towards the strange ship.

"Is that even a ship?" His Master replied.

Maliss tilted her head to the side and examined it as she edged closer. "I know what that is," she said with a laugh. She broke out into a run and they followed her as she clambered up the rocks and crawled onto the top of the Republic vessel. Walking carefully across twisting pipes and rusted vents, she scaled the side of the other ship that stuck out diagonally into the air. With one hand holding the rear of the ship, she banged her clenched fist on a release beside the rear ramp until it swung open.

Motioning for the other three to follow, she dropped into the ship. Torin climbed in after her and nearly slipped on the sloping floor before grabbing a handle on the ceiling for support. The interior was simple, no more than a single pilot's chair with fifteen seats lining either side of the narrow vessel. Three closed ramps were set into the floor, redundant exits to be used in case the rear one was blocked.

"Is this a transport?" He settled down into one of the wall seats closest to the cockpit and strapped himself in as Maliss did the same in the pilot's chair. Already he felt all the blood rushing to his head, and he tried to avoid looking to his left out the cockpit window, past which lay the darkened depths of Malachor V.

"Sort of." Maliss pressed buttons and threw switches all over the cockpit, making the ship hum with life as she let out a triumphant laugh. "It's a Mandalorian boarding ship. No shields, no guns. Just a shitload of armor and room for enough shock troops to take any ship smaller than a destroyer."

Nomi and Vathamma settled into the seats opposite Torin and strapped themselves in.

"These ships are supposed to be a one-use thing, but beggars can't be choosers." The ship shook, but not because of anything she had done. The planet's quakes had grown stronger, and threatened to shake them free of the tenuous grasp the Republic corvette had on them.

"Everyone ready?" Maliss said to the three behind her.

"This ship has vertical thrusters, yes?" Vathamma said in a halting voice.

The Mandalorian snorted. "The only reason this thing still works is because it's _simple._ We've got two thrusters on either side, and they're only pushing us one way—down." She wrapped her fingers around the control column. "And then hopefully, back up."

" _Hopefully?"_ Nomi said, looking at Torin with a pleading expression.

"You're her boyfriend," Maliss said to Torin. "Tell her to trust in the Force, or whatever it is you say."

The ship shook again, and lurched downward as a quake traveled up the canyon and shook the Republic vessel. They were sliding forward, about to be dropped headlong into the gaping maw below. Maliss hit a switch and engaged the ship's thrusters, tearing them free of the corvette just as it slid off the edge of the canyon. They rocketed away from it, moving downward at a terrifying speed, accelerating from the combined force of their ship's twin engines and the planet's remaining gravity.

What little light there was faded away until the ship was lit only by the weak strips of yellow lighting lining the floor and ceiling. Torin's stomach rolled around, pushed to one side by the acceleration his body was under. For a time it was hard to tell whether they were falling or rising, or indeed which direction was up or down. His stomach rolled again, telling him that they had hit their nadir and begun rising from the blackened depths. His head swung hard to the right, and across from him he could see that his other two companions were faring no better, the Togruta and Sith holding tightly to their harnesses as they gritted their teeth against the immense forces pushing them to the rear of the ship.

A thin sliver of light became visible above them, growing in size until they shot out of the canyon. Maliss threw her hands up and shouted in ecstatic joy before quickly taking back control of the ship rocketing away from the fracturing planet.

Gradually the feeling of acceleration dissipated as they left the planet's weakened pull and their ship's artificial gravity generator kicked in. Hanging in space was Lord Andar's flagship, though only half of it was visible. It pointed away from their own ship at an angle, and shimmering around it at the midsection was a vast tear in space. Red and black clouds swirled like a whirlpool around the center of the ship, seeming to cut it in half. The front end of the flagship was gone, left through whatever tear in reality it had created. Countless fighters departed the construction yards built into the wrecks orbiting Malachor and flew through the hole, leaving for parts unknown. A familiar shimmer passed over the hull of Andar's ship and it disappeared, though the tear remained.

"What in the _hell..."_ Maliss wondered, maneuvering the agile strike craft towards the invisible flagship while she slowed their approach.

"It's a warp tunnel," Vathamma answered. "I don't know how, but he's used the Mass Shadow Generator and _that_ ship to create a tear in space—a shortcut."

"Is that possible?" Torin said.

His Master watched as more fighters flew through the hole, their cloaks engaging shortly before passing through. "Given what I'm seeing, I'm inclined to believe it is."

They continued moving forward, unmolested by any of Andar's ships. Either they were simply mistaken for space junk, or they had a grander goal in mind.

"There's nothing more we can do here," Vathamma said, pressing herself back into her seat. "We need to regroup with Imperial military. Now that Malgus and Andar's betrayal is public, I should be able to avoid being taken into custody."

Torin frowned. "He seemed awfully confident that there wouldn't _be_ an Empire after this battle." He looked to the warp tunnel. "This is my fault. I led him to that weapon, and now he's going to use it to kill Gods know how many people. I _need_ to stop him." He stared his Master in the eye, and she twisted my up her face in internal debate.

"Look," Maliss said to the Sith woman. "This ship doesn't have a hyperspace engine. Either we go through that—" she pointed to the hole in space, which had begun to shrink in diameter. "—or we float around here waiting for a rescue that won't come."

Vathamma glanced between the two, biting her fingernail as she deliberated.

"I go where you go," Nomi said to Torin with a firm expression.

Vathamma flashed her an angry look, then sat upright in her seat and crossed her arms. "Fine, fine!" She looked to the Mandalorian. "But if you get us killed, there will be no dark corner of the afterlife where you can hide from me! No level of oblivion deep enough—"

"Yeah, yeah." The Mandalorian flared their thrusters and set them on a course for the warp tunnel, joining the swarm of stealth fighters moving towards it. The very fabric of space twisted around them as they entered the rip in space, leaving the collapsing remnants of Malachor V behind.


	22. The Devil You Know

They emerged from the warp tunnel into what might as well have been the end of the world. Imperial and Republic starships sat on either side of a massive space station, their formations broken as they desperately battled the combined forces of Malgus' battle station, Andar's stealth fleet, and the rest of the naval power that Malgus' 'New Empire' had managed to summon for the trap he had lain. A rainbow of laser fire streaked across empty space as the Republic and Empire struggled to fight off the invisible armada swarming their fleets and wreaking havoc on their battle lines.

"Out of the frying pan, huh?" Maliss directed the ship downwards, away from the tear in space and the swarm of stealth fighters engaging their cloaks as they flew towards the massive battle. "No one's jumping out of here," she said as she tapped on the console display in front of her.

"We already _knew_ that," Vathamma said.

"No, I mean _no one_ is jumping." The mercenary tapped the display again for emphasis. "According to this, we're sitting smack in the middle of a moon. Anything trying to use the usual hyperspace routes to _or_ from here is going to wind up lost, or shredded to pieces by the jump."

"Now we know the other purpose of that ship," the Sith said. "It's not just a gateway—he's used it and the Mass Shadow Generator to lock down the entire system."

"What are you saying?" Torin said, looking out at the two fleets and the battle station between them. "They can't even get reinforcements?"

"I'm saying this is it." She gestured out into space. "Until that generator goes down, those navies are fighting it out with Malgus' fleets. No retreat, and no backup."

He swallowed the lump in his throat and watched as explosions rocked an Imperial carrier, a few fighters fleeing the bay as flames flared out and the force fields running alongside it dropped. They had come ready to siege Darth Malgus's' space station, a well-armed structure with few naval forces in jump range. The Empire and Republic couldn't have expected to encounter an armada of stealth ships flung from halfway across the galaxy.

"We need to get aboard his ship," Torin said.

"Andar's?" Maliss looked back at him. "We can't even _see_ it."

"I sensed the generator once—I can do it again."

Their pilot stood up from her seat and yielded the controls to him. "Have at it."

He undid his harness and moved to the captain's chair. With a deep breath in he closed his eyes and wrapped his hands around the steering column as he aligned their ship with that of Lord Andar's vessel. It wasn't sight, and it wasn't quite feeling. It was a new sensation, a sixth sense that beckoned him forward like a siren song. The ship flew out into space, away from the fleets and away from the station. His companions sat silently behind him, scanning the empty vastness ahead of them.

Torin jerked violently forward in his seat, his harness pulling tight against his chest as their ship buried itself in the side of Andar's own. The Mandalorian craft kept moving through the capital ship like an arrow, piercing wall after wall before coming to rest at a slight downward angle. He opened his eyes to see a mangled hallway directly outside the cockpit window, steam pouring from broken piping in the ceiling above them while bits of metal paneling fell from the crumpled wall their ship's nose had been stopped by.

Behind him, Maliss unbuckled her seat and knelt on the floor to open one of the escape hatches. All four hopped out, and Vathamma ran over to one of the wall-mounted computers. The wail of sirens filled the halls, a warning that they were about to feel the full might of the ship's internal security measures.

"The bridge is this way." She pointed to their right. "Lord Andar and the means to control his armada will be there."

Maliss pointed the other direction. "You have fun with that, I'm going for the relics room. He has something of mine, and I mean to get it back."

Nomi pushed the Sith aside and went to another screen on the computer, then begin stomping her feet in excitement. "The crew roster—my sister is here! She is working in the communications wing!"

Vathamma scoffed and turned to Torin. "Do not even think about it. You and I have more important things to do." She looked to Nomi. "You're on your own."

"No, she's not," Torin said, and walked towards Maliss. "Break into the security room and clear a way to her sister." He stared up at her, half-pleading and half-demanding. "Please."

She looked down at him for a few moments before her stone-faced expression softened and she sighed. "Fine." She motioned for the Togruta to follow her and ran down the hallway, ducking under the nose of the Mandalorian craft as she went.

"Are you ready?" Vathamma said to Torin. He nodded and they broke out into a run, moving from the center of the ship where they had crash-landed to the bridge, where their opponent awaited. The first door in their way opened as they ran, and they flew through a stark gray hallway to the next. It failed to open for them, and they both reached out with the force to drag it open from the middle.

"Is that you, Sayrun?" Lord Andar's voice came from the loudspeakers all around them, mixing in with the blaring sirens.

Torin stopped pulling for a moment and looked at his Master in confusion. "Say-run?"

She frowned and hung her head. "My... given name." Turning back to the door, she put renewed effort into yanking back on the metal slab. "Just keep pulling!"

He clenched his jaw until he had suppressed the smile threatening to form across his face and focused on getting the door open. They wrenched it open and slipped through before power returned to the overwhelmed motors and it shut behind them.

"I assume your Apprentice is with you?" the voice from the speakers said.

They continued to run down the hall, and were met by two columns of black-armored personnel flooding in from either side of multiple corridors running perpendicular to the main passage.

"Ah, yes. I see you two now."

Torin and his Master activated their lightsabers, both Sith blocking the hail of blaster fire shooting down the corridor while they ran. He was surprised at how fluid his movements were. Without the usual weight of a cortosis blade, his swings were a fiery blur that whipped from floor to ceiling faster than the eye could see. Despite never having wielded a lightsaber before, nothing had ever felt more natural.

"I don't need to wonder what you're doing here, Vathamma. But you, boy—do you know what you're even fighting for?"

They closed ranks with Andar's troops and began cutting a swathe through the massed troops. The soldiers' formations fell apart and their neat firing lines became a mess of chaotic blaster fire and deadly lightsaber swings, the troops killing each other with friendly fire nearly as quickly as the Sith cut them down.

"Do you think that when they tell the story of your life, you will be cast as the plucky hero? How many people have you killed on your way here?"

The charred body of an armored guard slumped to the floor, felled by a broad stroke of Torin's blade.

"You follow a woman who honors nothing and no one beyond her own self-interest. At best, you'll be remembered as a gutless follower. At worst, an accomplice who doomed this galaxy to another century of warfare."

Vathamma pulled the last trooper forward with the Force, impaling him on her saber before letting the body crumple to the ground.

"Ignore him," she said, continuing her jog down the main hallway. "The poisonous words of a man who knows his time is near."

Torin turned and followed her, but found his legs feeling heavy as he watched the back of the woman he had come to call Master.

* * *

Far down the other end of the ship, Maliss stood in a control room in front of an array of monitors. Two uniformed corpses were slumped in chairs at the other end of the room, rolled away from their workstations by the Mandalorian who leaned over the security controls for the aft section of the ship. Lord Andar controlled the fore section from the bridge, but she had free reign to do as she pleased with the rest of the flagship. She couldn't shut down the Mass Shadow Generator or scuttle the ship, but she could clear a path for Nomi to the communications room near the rear of the lengthy vessel.

"Duck to your left," Maliss said into a microphone on the desk, watching on a monitor as the Togruta she was tracking veered into a side hall. Maliss shut the door behind her and waited for a small squad of Andar's troops to appear further down the main hall. With a flurry of button-pressing she opened a series of doorways off the main hall that led out into space, sucking the air from the hall and the troops along with it. She clutched her stomach and laughed as the flailing soldiers passed camera after camera until they were swept out of an airlock. Maliss wiped away a tear from her eye and closed the doors, then opened the one she had sealed behind Nomi.

"Alright, you're good."

Nomi nodded at the camera and kept sprinting down the length of the vessel.

"Comm room coming up on your right."

She slid to a stop in front of a sealed set of doors, and Maliss switched another monitor to a view of the communications room past the door. Three uniformed personnel stood in a circular room filled with an array of computer equipment. One of them, a woman, shared the distinctive white-and-blue horns of the one outside the room.

"Your sister is on the left," she said through the speakers in the hallway Nomi waited in. "There's a crewman across from you, and another on the right."

The alien gave a thumbs-up to the camera, and took her blaster in hand. Maliss opened the door and watched as Nomi stepped inside the room, shooting at the two men with her gun held in both hands. Her first few shots missed, but she had the element of surprise and was able to drop the pair before they could do more than shout in surprise. The remaining crewmember stared at the intruder with no less shock, mouth opening and closing as she tried to process what she was seeing.

"What are you doing here?" She exclaimed, staring in confusion at what she swore must have been a ghost. " _How_ are you here?"

Nomi sheathed her pistol and walked towards her sister. "I am getting you out of here." She grabbed her sister's arm, but she pulled away.

"I can't just leave!" She turned to the terminals she had been monitoring, looking around wildly at the displays and readouts. "My Master needs me here! He's going to save—"

The heavy metal butt of a blaster struck the woman in the back of her head, and with a weak groan she fell to the floor as her eyes flickered shut.

"Sorry..." Nomi placed her blaster back on her belt and grabbed her unconscious sister by the wrists, then pulled her out of the room.

Maliss left the security station and raced down the length of the ship, the same way Nomi had gone. She'd already cleared a path for the Togruta, and there were no more soldiers or droids left to stop her from getting what she'd come for. She bolted down a side corridor and stopped before a tall doorway quite different from the others. Lined with silvery metal and inlaid with geometric Sith designs, she had come to the personal meditation room of Lord Andar. The door was locked tight, so she knelt down in front of the controls and pried off the panel, then ripped out a mess of wires. Her gloved fingers dug through the tangled heap, splitting apart two wires and tapping together the frayed edges until the door flew open with a _whoosh_ that seemed to suck all the air from the hall.

Cautiously, she stepped inside and ran her eyes over the walls. Armor, trophies, works of art—all very valuable, surely, but not what she was looking for. Finally her gaze fell upon a hilt mounted on a metal plaque. She walked around the meditation dais at the center of the room and gingerly took the weapon in both hands. Like all Mandalorian tools of warfare, it was elegant in its simplicity. It had a dark gray grip wrapped around the hilt, and a straight guard below a few inches of blade collar. There was no blade—not in its inactive state, anyway. In Mandalorian customs she would have had to defeat the previous owner to become the rightful wielder of the weapon, but he was long dead—and Lord Andar had never him _or_ Maliss in combat.

The rhythmic _thump-thump_ of boots pounding against the metal floor came from the hall behind her. She had been too preoccupied, too caught up in the triumph of finally holding what she had been after for years.

"Don't move!" a man shouted behind her. "Hands in the air!"

Still holding the hilt, Maliss slowly raised her arms and folded her hands behind her head, hiding the weapon with her left hand held over her right. As a second set of footsteps approached from behind her she pressed a button on the hilt and spun around, swinging the blade as she moved. A midnight edge sheathed in a corona of weak white light sliced through the soldier from left shoulder to right hip. As he fell his partner near the door raised his rifle and shot at Maliss. She held the blade vertically in front of her while she raced towards him, deflecting two blaster bolts before pointing the blade forward and stabbing him through the gut.

While she supported the dying man with one hand on the blade he was impaled on, Maliss examined the weapon in awe, twisting it back and forth in his stomach. Not quite a lightsaber and _certainly_ not a conventional blade, it occupied a shadowy realm in between the two weapons. She retracted the blade, allowing the crewman to crumple to the floor as the soft hum of energy ceased.

* * *

Torin and Vathamma had come to a massive set of doors that filled the hallway.

"This is it," she said to him, sheathing her saber before thrusting both hands at the door.

They pulled on the barrier with the Force, but could not make the heavy metal slabs budge. The woman stopped and drew her lightsaber. "Cutting it is, then." She pierced the center of the door just above head-level and began sawing away like she were wielding a plasma torch. Torin drew his own weapon and did the same, cutting the right half of a man-sized opening as his Master worked on the left.

Their blades hadn't cut through more than a few inches of durasteel when the door opened. They lowered their weapons and stepped back in surprise before walking into the room and scanning the sides for an ambush.

They stood on a parapet above rows of telemetry and navigational computers, workstations left empty by the men who had manned them. Two stairs led from the platform on either side, twisting down towards a central aisle that ran between the rows of terminals and stopped at a flight of stairs that spanned the width of the room. At the front of the bridge, atop the stairs, was another platform like the stage of a theater. The entire curved surface of the far wall was a window that looked out onto the battlefield, the perfect viewing window through which Lord Andar could witness his fleet's triumph as Empire and Republic fell. The man himself stood in the center of the stage, looking more statesman than Sith, wearing the same cloak and military dress they had seen him in when he had last communicated through hologram.

"I derive no pleasure from this." His voice boomed from across the room, amplified by the curvature of the ceiling that seemed designed to carry his words across the room. "Any of it."

"That makes one of us, Lord Andar." Vathamma descended the stairs to her left, and Torin took the one to the right.

"Actually, its _Darth Vitoris_ now."

She forced a laugh. "According to whom? _Emperor_ Malgus?"

He turned to face them as they entered the pathway running down the center of the room. Bags hung under his eyes, and streaks of gray ran across his brown hair. His face was gaunt and his cheeks sunken, like he had aged a decade since Torin had last seen him in person.

"You can't play the noble villain," Torin shouted up to the Sith Lord standing atop the stairs. "Not after throwing your lot in with the butcher of Coruscant. You think _Emperor Malgus_ will mean the end of war?"

"Yes!" He held a single finger up. "One final war, then that will be the end of it. When there are no worlds left to conquer, we will finally have peace."

"Peace?" Torin shot back. "As soon as the Empire has peace, you people will eat each other." He gestured out the windows behind Andar. "You're doing it already."

Vathamma stepped in front of him and walked towards the stairs. "Enough talking."

Andar drew his lightsaber and took a single step back before holding it high. "Finally, we agree on something." He thrust his other hand towards the woman ascending the stairs and sent a jolt of lightning shooting from his fingertips. It connected with the blade of her lightsaber, the blue current and red plasma battling as she stomped upwards.

Torin moved to help her, but his Master shot him a stern glare. "Don't interfere!" she shouted back.

He lowered his saber and watched as she pushed against the lightning arcing down the stairs, taking different paths through the air as it sought a way around her blade. She crested the stairs and closed the gap with the other Sith. Andar lowered his fingers and took his lightsaber in both hands to block Vathamma's first blow. Their red sabers sizzled against each other as each pushed against the other. She spun to the side, letting him fall forward before striking from her new position of strength.

Their sabers connected again, but even with her smaller size Vathamma overwhelmed him with her bladework. She pushed on his blade with greater leverage, spinning it in a wide arc around them until his arms were far off to one side, then she quickly disengaged and slashed him across the chest, cutting a path from armpit to armpit. His head tilted back and his arms slumped as his saber rolled from his grip. The defeated Sith fell onto his side, coming to rest just as the saber he had dropped to the floor stopped rattling.

Torin sheathed his lightsaber as he stared up at the crumpled body of Lord Andar.

"That felt a bit... anticlimactic," he said.

Vathamma walked to the consoles at the front of the bridge and began sweeping her fingers across them as she looked up at the battle displays.

"For all his plotting and planning, he was always the inferior Sith," she said.

Torin ascended the stairs after her, then stopped and stared in shock at the battle still raging outside. His eyes turned to the battle displays, where his Master was redirecting the automated stealth ships away from the Imperial Navy and towards the wounded Republic fleet. A capital ship was raked by laser fire from the invisible fighters that swarmed it, torn to shreds by the combined firepower of the Imperial Navy and the armada now under his Master's control.

"What are you doing?" He shouted. Explosions raced across another flagship as the support ships around it dropped like flies.

"What does it look like? I'm _winning_ this battle. I'll be a hero." Her amber eyes flashed back at him. "As will you." Refocusing her attention on the battle display, she removed her hands and stood up straight as the fleet's AI took over for her, coordinating with the Imperials as a single cohesive unit against which the Republic Navy stood no chance.

"Call them off."

She turned around to see her Apprentice standing at the top of the stairs, lightsaber burning to his side.

Her chest puffed up and her hand edged towards the hilt hanging by her waist.

"You don't want to fight me."

He closed his eyes for a moment and breathed out slowly, then opened them again.

"I think I have to."

As he began to walk towards her, Vathamma angled back towards the computers as her fingers wrapped around her lightsaber hilt. Torin broke out into a run, lightsaber pointed at her as she whipped her weapon from her belt and began slashing away at the terminal, cutting the controls to pieces. Before he reached her she thrust her hand out and pushed on him with the Force, sending him flying back down the stairs. His back slammed into the hard floor and the air was knocked from his lungs. As he leapt back to his feet he was struck by a shock that burned him from the inside out, setting every nerve ending in his body on fire.

His Master walked down the stairs, lightning surging from her fingertips and arcing across the room where it connected with Torin. He collapsed onto his chest, just barely managing to keep a grip on his lightsaber.

"I have indulged your childish delusions enough!" She finished descending the steps and stopped at the base of the stairs. "That's my own fault, but it ends now."

He tried to push himself up with his arms, but fell back as the unbearable pain made deliberate movement impossible.

"Stay down!" she shouted over the crack of thunder as the lightning intensified. "You don't owe those people a thing."

With gritted teeth that howled with the pain of a thousand volts, he wrapped his fingers tightly around his lightsaber.

"I know," he said, barely able to unclench his jaw to snarl the words at his Master. He raised his arm up, sticking the blade of his weapon in between him and his Master. The lightning struck the red plasma, making it flare purple and shoot off sparks that had him turning his head away reflexively. He couldn't summon the will to project the Force at his Master, but he could redirect _her_ energy.

Turning his focus inwards, he felt the electricity coursing through his ravaged body and sent it shooting back up his lightsaber. It arced across the room, striking Vathamma in the shoulder and singing her clothes. She let out a shock of surprise and pain and fell back on the stairs, slapping at the small flame that had formed on her robe. Torin stumbled to his feet, taking his lightsaber in both hands and standing firm before her.

"This is your last chance!" Her blood-red face was warped in anger, but he could see fear flicker across it.

He advanced on her down the center of the aisle. "I was going to say the same thing."

With a battle cry she flung herself at him, black robe fluttering in the air and blade pointed straight at him. She came at him with quick jabs from all sides, striking at his limbs and shoulders. Her aim was to maim or cripple, not kill—but it made her onslaught no less ferocious in its intensity.

Torin moved his lightsaber in short sweeps across the front of him, blocking her attacks. Every time he tried to strike at her, she would move aside and counter with a swing of her own, seeming to predict his movements before he himself had decided upon them.

"I _made_ you," she hissed over the sizzle of their lightsabers meeting. "That's why you can't defeat me, and that's why you can't stop this. Everything you know, I taught you!"

He slid away from her, taking a step back and raising his lightsaber hand over his head, weapon held sideways as if preparing to make a bold swipe at her. Sensing her opportunity had come, Vathamma thrust her saber at his exposed wrist. The plasma fizzled harmlessly against his arm, and the sleeve of his tunic burned away to reveal the Cortosis gauntlet he had stolen from the Mandalorian.

"Not everything." He thrust his other hand at her, striking her in the gut with a blow of Force that sent her flying across the room where she struck the stairs. Her lightsaber fell from her hand and rolled down the steps, stopping somewhere in the rows of computers filling the room.

"Enough of this!" His Master pressed a button on her wrist-bound computer, and he felt immense heat and pressure shoot through his right hand as an explosion rang his eardrums. His lightsaber fell to the floor, a smoking tear visible in the side of the handle. A hole the size of his thumb had been blown through his palm, and the scarred flesh still burned as he stared in shock at his mangled hand.

The sound of clanging steel drew his attention back forward. Vathamma held both hands up in the air, using the Force to strip metal away from the floor and computers on either side of the aisle. She summoned a veritable battery of scrap metal in the air around her, and with an anguished scream flung the shrapnel forward at him. He staggered backwards and battered the debris way with broad sweeping motions and shockwaves of force, but the searing pain shooting up his arm with each swipe made his movements sluggish.

A single thin pipe with a pointed end flew through his defenses, piercing the right side of his chest and pulling him with it as Vathamma kept it moving until the projectile buried itself in the metal wall behind him, pinning him to it. He brought his trembling hands up to the pipe jutting out from between two shattered ribs and pulled on it to no avail. Weak and barely able to support himself with his legs, it was a miracle that he was still alive, let alone conscious. Pain wracked his chest with each ragged breath, an excruciating reminder of how close the metal and his own broken bones had come to puncturing his right lung.

Wetness rolled down his stomach and back, spilling from both ends of the wound even as the slaughter outside Andar's ship sustained him in a grotesque transaction of life. All those men and women slaughtered, their life force flowing to him, and for what? His Master was right—he couldn't beat her.

The pipe drove further into his chest, scraping against the punctured metal surface behind him and producing a horrible screech that echoed his own anguished scream. His hands dropped away from the tube and he whipped his head up to see Vathamma walking towards him with one hand extended forward, stooping down to pick up his broken saber as she moved.

"I will win this battle, and we will receive a hero's welcome after I take you back to Dromund Kaas." She hung his lightsaber from his belt, then looked him in the face. "Kicking and screaming, if need be." Tears welled in the corners of her amber eyes, and her face was twisted in a tortured expression of fury and sadness. With one last tremble of her lip she turned and went back towards the stairs, her robe trailing up the steps behind her until she crested the top and walked towards the front of the bridge.

More explosions outside, silent fireballs engulfing entire Republic destroyers as ship after ship fell to the combined might of the stealth fleet and the Imperial Navy. He needed to do something, but what? He could hardly summon the will to stay standing, even with the pipe in his chest threatening to crack a third rib if his legs faltered. Channeling the power of the Force was beyond him.

All around him he felt the unsettling energy of the Mass Shadow Generator flow through the ship, and a thought occurred to him.

What if, just like with the Vathamma's lightning, he didn't _channel_ the Force? What if he merely redirected its course?

He pressed his palms flat to the wall behind him, feeling the unsettling energy of the Mass Shadow Generator as it flowed through the ship. Never had he been able to sense the presence of the Force in a person or place, but _this,_ this unnatural marriage of Darkside energy and technological horror—it resonated with him.

The more he focused, the more the darkness of the weapon flowed into him, like he had placed himself in the middle of an electrical circuit as a path of lower resistance. As the energy moved from hand to hand he pushed on it, even as the immense weight of its shadowy influence weighed down on him.

Slowly, but noticeably, the ship began to angle upwards. It was still pointed directly at Malgus's' space station, but Torin manipulated the Mass Shadow Generator in such a way that the weapon became an engine that drove them forward towards the structure. Vathamma staggered backwards on the bridge as the floor became a downwards slope on which she slipped back towards the stairs. She looked around in confusion before her gaze fell on her Apprentice, whose eyes were closed and hands were pressed to the wall behind him.

"Are you doing this? She shouted at him, then scrambled back up the sloping floor to the ship's controls. Her hands ran across the console, diverting every last bit of energy in the vessel to the lower pair of the ship's engines as she sought to bring them below Malgus' station.

Their course hardly shifted, the effect of the engines completely overpowered by the immense gravitational forces wreaking havoc on the craft. The weapon that powered it had held a planet together—moving a ship was nothing.

To Torin, however, the effort was a bit more than nothing. The energy of the Mass Shadow Generator was eating away at his insides, a gnawing pain as physical and it was mental.

The rounded disc of Malgus' station grew until it filled their entire view. Vathamma ran down the steps, abandoning any hope of saving the flagship and making her way to Torin. She put one foot on the wall beside him and pulled on the pipe, trying to yank it free of the wall and his body while Torin opened his eyes and watched as the station outside collided with with the front of their ship.

Windows shattered, paneled ceilings crumpled, and server banks were thrown into the air as an unstoppable force met an immovable object. Sirens blared for a few short seconds before being cut short as the systems maintaining any emergency procedures were rendered useless by the sheer totality of destruction visited upon the flagship. Torin fell free of the wall and slid across the floor of the bridge as he was pulled violently through the room by the rush of air moving out of one of the countless hull breaches being created with each passing second.

Everything was the rush of wind on his face, the scraping of metal floors against his open wound, the passing walls and doorways battering his face—then it was nothing.

He was in space, tumbling into oblivion with no sense of direction. There was still enough air rushing by him for the sound of the ship and station breaking apart to carry to his ears, and he flailed about desperately for something to grab onto.

While he spun he saw something in the distance. It passed out of view, returning as he made another rotation. Vathamma had been thrown out with him. Her arms and legs floated limply, and her head hung off to one side as if she were unconscious. His tumbling slowed just enough for him to get a coherent view of the chaos he had caused as he drew in one last desperate gasp of the air ejected from the ship. The main module had been reduced to a dozen crumpled pieces, but the toruses that had once spun around them were largely intact—though that knowledge was useless without any way to reach them.

As the orbiting circle nearest him continued to spin in space, he saw a shimmering blue forcefield over a small part of it. Like in the main module, a breach had formed, but the destruction had been minor enough that the emergency force fields had managed to kick in. He reached out and tried to grab onto the remains of the ship to pull himself towards it, but it was too far. All that was within reach was his Master, tumbling with him to a starry grave.

The torus continued to spin, and he could tell that soon his opening would soon be out of reach, not to come around again for at least another few minutes. By that time he would be even further from it, and either unconscious or dead from lack of oxygen. Already his lungs felt empty, and his head throbbed painfully.

He reached out again, this time for his Master. With one last projection of Force he pushed her unconscious body towards the forcefield, praying that his aim was true. The blast threw him back into space away from her, out into cold blackness. The feeling of air on his skin, the roar of the ship and station embracing each other in mutual destruction, even the familiar feeling of the Mass Shadow Generator—all that had left him. All that remained was a more peaceful silence than any he had ever known.

Craning his neck back to look at the ship, he watched as his Master drifted safely through the forcefield and into the damaged remnants of the vessel that continued its grinding collision with Malgus' station. He didn't know whether she would be safe, but he had done the best he could.

As he turned back forward he saw, just before closing his eyes one last time, the remaining Republic ships jumping into hyperspace one after the other. They were battered and bruised, but freed from the grip of the Mass Shadow Generator they would live to fight another day. He would not, but that was alright.

He had done enough.


	23. Breathe Out

Torin opened his eyes to blinding whiteness. He squinted and brought his arm up to his face, blocking out some of the light to give himself time to adjust. The bare skin of his wrist pressed into his forehead, and he lifted his arm up to see that he wasn't wearing his tunic—or shirt—anymore. A thick blanket was pulled up to his chest, tucked under his sides in a soft embrace of comforting warmth. Swiveling his head around, he saw white walls on either side of the bed he lay on. A nightstand stood to his right, on top of which was a potted plant with autumnal leaves and flowering pink blossoms. It looked familiar, though he couldn't quite place it.

Was this heaven?

Pushing himself up in bed with his hands, he winced and pulled his right hand into his lap. His blast wound was healed, though covered in scar tissue that snaked out to all corners of his hand on either side like a spiderweb. He wiggled his fingers back and forth awkwardly, finding it hard to control them.

His chest had fared no better. The wound was sealed, and if there were any internal injuries they were healed enough not to bother him, but the right side of his ribcage was a mess of scars.

Unable to recall hearing about any afterlife where you kept your scars, he decided that this probably wasn't such an outlandish place. No, he was alive again—somewhere, somehow, he was alive.

He swung his feet out of bed and scanned the rest of the room until his eyes landed on a single door leading out. Was this an Imperial hospital? Would his Master burst in here to chastise him?

Was she alive too?

He pulled up on the waistline of the ankle-length pants someone had put on him and tip-toed towards the door, then pressed the controls on the wall next to it. To his surprise the door opened immediately. No lock, no key card, nothing. He moved out into a short hallway that looked more like the entryway of someone's home than any hospital he had ever seen. Halfway down the low-ceilinged corridor was a window built into a beige wall. He walked over to it and peered out at alpine terrain, a rolling landscape of evergreen trees and snow-capped mountains.

The _whoosh_ of a door reached his ears, and he spun around back to the room he had just left, only to see that the way was still open. Looking to either side of the hall, he saw that a new door had opened. A woman stood in the entryway, barely visible with the bright sun shining behind her. She stepped inside, and the door closed.

She had olive skin, and short brown hair swept over her eyebrows. The woman was on the older side, no younger than forty, but fit-looking. She wore a red and brown tunic with a yellow sash wrapped around her waist, and similarly colored wristbands below both hands.

Torin's eyes went wide and he jumped back as he recognized the Jedi Knight he had fought on Dominus' ship. His hand went to his waist, seeking out a weapon before he remembered his situation.

She took a few steps towards him, and he backed away further, his hand brushing the wall as he moved. With a bright smile and moist eyes she clasped her hands together and pressed them to her chin.

"Welcome home."

* * *

That's the end of part 1, thanks for reading! Part 2 is up, and is titled "The Opposing Shore."


End file.
